


Our Safety Is in Our Speed

by sahiya



Series: Falling for You: The White Collar Hockey/Figure Skating AU [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Coming Out, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:07:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 59,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For hockey player Peter Burke and figure skater Neal Caffrey, starting a relationship in the pressure cooker of the Olympics would be hard enough. And then Phil Kramer gets involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has cheerleaded this fic over the past - dear God - EIGHT MONTHS. Many thanks to my betas: Fuzzyboo, who has read parts of this more times than she probably cares to count, and via_ostiense, who never hesitates to tell me when I'm telling rather than showing. Many thanks as well to my roommate, who got me into hockey last year and without whom this fic would certainly not exist. 
> 
> Finally, many, MANY thanks to Kanarek13, who has made incredible art for this, and who put up with me emailing her less than a month before our posting date to say that I was changing the entire emotional tone of the second half of the story. Her art post may be found [here](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/44196.html). Please go give her some love!
> 
> This thing is way too long to post all at once, so it'll be happening over the next five or six days. If you want to know when new chapters go up, I recommend subscribing to the fic here on AO3 or watching my journal for updates.
> 
>  

  


_"When skating on thin ice, our safety is in our speed." - Ralph Waldo Emerson_

__

The air in Olympic Stadium was charged with excitement when Peter arrived with his team for the opening ceremonies. He’d looked forward to this moment for months now, afraid at times that he wouldn’t make it at all, that he wouldn’t manage to claw his way back from injury in time. But now he was here, in Olympic Stadium, surrounded by his teammates, and his stomach was a mess of butterflies.

He knew it wasn’t just the prospect of playing for gold making him nervous, either. It’d been a week since Peter had said good-bye to Neal at his apartment in Buffalo, slipping out in the early morning light. Peter had barely had time to breathe all week with all the press events to promote the U.S. hockey team, but any time he had had was taken up in thinking about Neal and when they would see each other again. They’d exchanged a few texts in the meantime but hadn’t spoken, and now that Peter knew they were in the same building, he found he couldn’t wait another minute to see him again. 

It was a madhouse backstage, where Team USA was milling around, waiting to head out into the stadium. Peter had trouble shaking his teammates long enough to go look for Neal, but he finally managed to escape. He dodged a cluster of loud, boisterous, and quite possibly drunk snowboarders, and wondered if he’d even recognize the figure skaters if he found them.

“Peter!”

Peter turned and saw Neal jogging toward him. Damn him, he actually managed to make the hideous team sweaters look _good_. “Hey, there you are,” Neal said. “I was hoping you’d be marching. How was your trip?”

“It was fine. Um, how was yours?” Peter gave a mental wince. Awkwardness, thy name was Peter Burke.

“Not bad,” Neal said easily, as though he hadn’t noticed what a dork Peter was being. “Do you have plans for after?”

“I’ll probably just go to bed,” Peter said, a little apologetically. “I’m trying to get over the jet lag before we start playing.”

“Fair enough. I have a training session tomorrow I need to be fresh for, but not until the afternoon. Breakfast?”

“Sure,” Peter said.

Neal grinned. “Great. There’s a café down the street from me with a trainer-approved menu, let’s go there. Nine o’clock okay?” Peter nodded, and Neal pulled out a phone identical to the one Peter himself had received from the team’s officials before leaving for the Games. “What’s your number?”

“Uh,” Peter said, and had to dig his own phone out to check. He rattled off the number, which seemed strangely long and hard to read without the dashes in the right places.

“I’m texting you my address in the village,” Neal said, already typing. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He reached out and squeezed his arm, then turned and vanished back into the throng of skaters.

Peter managed to get back in line with his team just as they started making their entrance into the arena. “How’s Neal?” Jones asked him wryly.

“Fine,” Peter said shortly, giving him a look.

“Neal?” Jim Roberts, one of their teammates, said from Peter’s other side. “Neal who?”

“Caffrey,” Peter said, hoping that that would put an end to it.

Roberts raised his eyebrows. “The figure skating fairy?”

Peter had never really had an opinion about Jim Roberts, but he instantly decided he didn’t like the guy. “I don’t know what you mean by that,” he said frostily. “If you mean that he’s gay and he’s a figure skater, then yeah, that’s him. And he’s a friend of mine, so I’d appreciate it if you talked about him with some respect.”

Roberts held his hands up. “Jesus, Burke, don’t get your panties in a twist. I don’t care who you’re friends with.”

“Damn right,” Peter said, and glared until Roberts backed off and went to sell his special brand of homophobia somewhere else.

Peter turned and realized that Jones was giving him a look. “What?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” Jones said, “just, you might want to tone it down a bit.”

Peter frowned. “You think that was an overreaction? He called Neal -”

“I know what he called Neal,” Jones said, “and I totally support you calling him out about it, but don’t forget that we have to skate with that guy for the next two weeks. If there’s bad blood between you two from the beginning, it could affect the whole team.”

Peter sighed. “You’re right. I’ll apologize to him later.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t go that far,” Jones said, and slung an arm across Peter’s shoulders as they entered the arena. “The guy’s a dick.”

The opening ceremonies were exciting, but they were also long, and it was late by the time the athletes left the stadium. The air in Salzburg was brisk and dry as Peter walked with his team toward the tram that would take them back up the mountain to Olympic Village. He’d felt more settled after seeing Neal, but the ceremonies themselves had amped him up again. Whatever he’d said to Neal before, he probably wasn’t going to be going to be able to sleep right away.

At the tram stop in the village, Peter started to follow the rest of his teammates back to their accommodations, but at last the minute he veered off, glancing down at his phone. Neal’s accommodations were only a couple of blocks over from the tram stop, and Peter’s feet carried him there almost of their own accord. 

It occurred to him in the elevator that Neal might not be back yet; just because Peter had turned him down didn’t mean he hadn’t found anyone else to go out with. But Peter was there, and so he knocked, fully expecting one of Neal’s roommates to open the door.

It wasn’t a stranger who opened the door. It was Neal.

“Hey,” Peter said.

“Hey!” Neal said, face lighting up in a way that Peter had to admit was gratifying. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to bed.”

“So did I, but I was so worked up after the ceremony, I don’t think I could sleep yet.”

“I know what you mean,” Neal said. “Come in. I’m not sure where my roommates are, but they probably won’t be back for a bit. In fact.” He closed the door behind Peter and immediately pushed Peter up against it. “Hello,” he murmured, inches from Peter’s face.

“Hello,” Peter said, and realized then that he’d made a slight miscalculation: this was not likely to calm him down. In fact, it was pretty much guaranteed to have the opposite effect.

Neal kissed him. In the week since Peter had last seen him, he’d thought about where and when he might kiss him again, but somehow right up against the door of Neal’s apartment, not even an hour after the opening ceremonies, had never occurred to him. They kissed until Peter was dizzy with desire for Neal, and he was on the verge of asking just how long he thought his roommates would be out.

And then someone knocked, about two inches from Peter’s head. Peter startled, breaking the kiss, and Neal swore. Peter blinked in slightly frustrated confusion. “What the -”

“Sorry,” Neal said, and pulled him away from the door in order to open it.

The guy on the other side had wild brown hair and was almost as handsome as Neal, though in a totally different way. He looked vaguely familiar; Peter thought he must’ve seen him earlier tonight, though it was possible he had some sort of endorsement deal and he’d actually seen his face in an ad for cold medication.

“Michael, hey,” Neal said, letting him in. “Peter, this is Michael Schneider. He skates pairs for Germany. Michael, this is Peter Burke. He -”

“Is a very good hockey player,” Michael finished in faintly accented English, holding his hand out for Peter to shake. “Yes, I know. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Peter.”

“Likewise,” Peter said, though he wasn’t sure he totally meant it. “I take it you two are old friends?”

“Yes, very old,” Michael said, and rested his hand on Neal’s back in a way that Peter could only describe as _proprietary._ “We are very old, very good friends, aren’t we, Neal?”

“Yeah, we go way back,” Neal said, looking awkward. It was a new look for him; Peter didn’t think he’d ever seen him look uncomfortable before. Frustrated, sure, but never uncomfortable. It all but confirmed Peter’s sneaking suspicion that Michael and Neal were more than just ‘old friends,’ or if they were, they were the kind of old friends that slept together whenever the opportunity arose. Like tonight, maybe.

The silence went on a little too long. “I hope I didn’t interrupt something,” Michael said at last.

“No, no,” Peter said. “I just came by to say hi. I should head back, get some rest before tomorrow. You two have a good night.”

“Peter -” Neal started, in an apologetic voice.

“Nah, it’s fine, Neal, I’ll catch you tomorrow."

Neal hesitated before nodding. “Breakfast like we planned?”

“Yeah, sure,” Peter said. “I’ll see you then. It was nice to meet you, Michael.”

Outside on the street, Peter had to stop and force himself to take a deep breath. He and Neal had had the benefit of existing inside a little bubble in Buffalo for a couple of weeks, but they’d both had lives before that. It wasn’t Neal’s fault he hadn’t lived like a monk for ten years like Peter had. They hadn’t made any promises or decided to be exclusive, and Peter had absolutely no right to expect anything from him.

Logically, he knew all that. But it was hard not to feel hurt at the idea that maybe, to Neal, this just wasn’t as big a deal as it was to Peter. Peter was risking a lot, and right up until now he’d been certain it was worth it. But now he wasn’t as sure.

The walk back to Peter’s own building was longer and colder than he’d expected. By the time he climbed the stairs to the apartment he and Jones were sharing with four other members of the U.S. hockey team, he was looking forward to his bed.

Jones was already in bed, watching something on his iPad, when Peter came in. “Hey, where’d you go?” he asked, looking up. “I turned around and you were gone.”

“I went to see Neal,” Peter said shortly, stripping his shirt off over his head.

Jones was silent while Peter finished changing into his pajamas. “Everything okay?" he asked. "It’s just,” he added, when Peter looked at him sharply, “usually when you see Neal you light up like a Christmas tree.”

“I do not.”

“You do, too, and you didn’t answer my question.”

“Look, Jones, we might be sharing a room for the Olympics, but this isn’t a twelve-year-old girl’s slumber party,” Peter snapped. “I’m not going to braid your hair while we talk about boys.”

“I hope not,” Jones said, skimming a hand over his shaved head. “But you know that if you want to talk, I’m here. So c’mon, tell me what happened. Were his roommates home or something?”

“No. He had somebody over.” And with that, Peter went to brush his teeth.

He’d hoped that would end the conversation, but Jones was waiting for him when he came out of the bathroom. “What do you mean, he had somebody over?” Jones demanded.

“Will you keep your voice down?” Peter hissed. Jones sighed and followed him back to the bedroom. Peter shut the door behind them. “I mean, I was there and he was there, and then this guy showed up, Michael Schneider. I guess he skates for Germany. He was all touchy-feely with Neal and ‘we’re very old friends.’ I could just tell he was waiting for me to leave so he could rip Neal’s clothes off.”

Jones raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure? I mean, you know how it is at this level, everyone knows everyone else, and there aren’t that many other people who get what it’s like to be us. Maybe this Schneider dude just meant what he said - they’re very old friends.”

“Maybe,” Peter said dubiously. “I don’t know, there was something about how Neal was acting - he seemed uncomfortable, and if Michael was nothing more than a friend, I don’t know why he would be. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” He climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. The beds were comfortable, he was glad to find; the beds in Vancouver four years ago had been too hard and his back had ached for the first three days.

“What do you mean, ‘it doesn’t matter’? Of course it matters.”

Peter shrugged. “We didn’t talk about exclusivity before I left for New York. You know what it’s like in Olympic Village during the Games, and Neal’s never been before. If he wants to sleep with other people, I don’t have the right to stop him.” He’d assumed certain things, but it seemed he shouldn’t have. He thought that that probably stung more than anything else, the idea that he’d thought they were on the same page when in fact they weren’t even reading the same book.

“But if it bothers you,” Jones started.

“If it bothers me, that’s my problem, not his. I’m old enough to know that.”

Jones was silent. “Well, I guess you’re right about that,” he said at last. “Hey, take one of the melatonins the doc gave us, all right? Otherwise you’ll probably be awake at three in the morning.”

“Yeah, okay,” Peter said, and dug through his doc kit to find them. He took one and let it dissolve under his tongue, as instructed. Jones went back to watching whatever he had been watching on his iPad, and Peter lay back and did his resolute best not to think about Neal and Michael Schneider.

If it weren’t for the melatonin he probably wouldn’t have slept at all, but he actually managed to get a decent seven hours. He woke in time to join Jones for a run through the still-quiet streets of the village. The cold was bracing, and Peter could feel himself start to gear up mentally for the competition to come. They had today and tomorrow left to train, and then on Monday their group games would begin.

He showered and dressed, then headed out to meet Neal. Jones, devouring a bowl of oatmeal and a plate full of fried eggs in the living room, shot him a look but didn’t ask where he was going.

The café was bustling by the time Peter got there. He ordered the standard breakfast, which looked like it included enough food to keep him going through their morning skate in a couple of hours, and then snagged a table by the window. Neal came in a minute or two later. He waved to Peter and went up to the counter to order. He came back with a cup of tea and nothing else.

“No food?” Peter asked. He’d already started picking at his toast while he waited. 

“I ordered some eggs and toast. They’ll be out in a bit."

Peter nodded. Then, because he had no idea what to say, he shoved most of a piece of toast in his mouth. A coward’s way out, probably, but he was almost starting to regret having shown up at all.

Neal opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “About last night."

Peter shook his head and swallowed. “You don’t have to explain.”

“No, I think I do,” Neal said. “Look, for years Michael and I had a standing . . . arrangement, I guess you’d call it, whenever we saw each other at international competitions. Then he started dating someone and we stopped, but I guess they’ve broken up since the last time we saw each other. He was hoping we could pick up where we left off.”

“I see.” Peter didn’t look at Neal.

“Peter,” Neal said, very quietly, “I didn’t sleep with him.”

“Oh,” Peter said, and blinked. “You didn’t?”

“No, I didn’t."

“But we never talked about - you _could_ have, you know,” Peter said, because he was a reasonable human being, dammit. He and Neal had had all of two weeks together in Buffalo, and based on that he had no right to tell Neal anything about how to live his life.

Neal shrugged. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t want to? I mean, with Michael, it was always fun, but we both knew it wasn’t serious. He took it well when I told him that we couldn’t pick up again, because I’d just started seeing someone.”

“Oh,” Peter said again, and didn’t know what else to say. Fortunately, Neal’s eggs came out then, giving him a minute or two to try and pull himself together. “Did you, um, tell him who you were seeing?”

Neal shook his head. “But Michael’s a smart guy, and I think he probably worked it out. Don’t worry, though, he’ll be discreet. I think he was only slightly less furious than Mozzie when Matthew outed me in the tabloids.”

Peter nodded and looked down, picking at his food. The silence stretched, not wholly uncomfortable, but not exactly companionable either. “Hey,” Neal said after a few seconds, “are you okay? I thought you’d be glad I didn’t sleep with him.”

“I am,” Peter said, looking up. “I’m really glad, but that’s just it, we’ve had so little time together that I don’t really see how I have the right to expect that of you.”

“You didn’t expect it of me,” Neal said. “ _I_ did. Look, you told me it’s been a while for you. Well, it’s been a while for me, too. I think we have a lot of potential, and I didn’t want to screw that up. So - it’s not you, it’s me, if that helps.”

Peter smiled. “I think this might be the first time that phrase ever actually did help.” He took a sip of his coffee, feeling himself start to calm down. “So, you have practice later?”

“Yeah,” Neal said, grimacing, “and the judges will be watching.”

Peter's mouth fell open. “Wait, seriously?”

“Unfortunately. So if I fall on the quad, not only will it get caught on tape, but the judges will see it and decide I can’t do it before I even have the chance to try it in competition.”

Peter frowned. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Not really, no,” Neal said with a shrug, “but that’s how it is. What about you?”

“We have the ice for a couple hours this morning,” Peter said. “And I think Jones and I are going to go to watch Diana play tonight. They’re going to trounce Japan.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“It will be,” Peter said. And then, impulsively, he added, “You should come.”

Neal looked taken aback. “Really?”

“Sure, if you have the time. Have you ever seen a live hockey game?”

“No,” Neal said. “Can’t say that I have. Except for watching you and Diana and Jones, of course.”

Peter shook his head. “That wasn’t a real game. Live hockey is something else, and this should be - well, it probably won’t be a good game, but our women’s team is always worth watching.”

“Okay,” Neal said, after a split-second hesitation. “Sure.”

“Great,” Peter said, trying to quash the voice in the back of his head that was wondering what the hell he’d just done. It was one thing to get photographed on a cell phone out in public, but there would be real cameras at the game that night. They were almost certain to find Peter in the stands at some point, and they weren’t going to miss Neal sitting next to him. But then again, who cared? People could assume what they wanted. Neal had said he was okay with a little secrecy, but Peter refused to live in shame.

The café gradually emptied over the next hour, as Peter and Neal chatted. Finally, with great reluctance, Peter checked his watch and said, “I hate to do this, but I need to get going. If you’re at the stadium a little before six, I’ll meet you outside and get you in.”

“Sure." Neal swallowed the last of his second cup of tea and stood. “Looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” Peter said.

Outside the café they paused and looked at each other. Peter felt a brief but intense longing to kiss Neal good-bye, but his better judgment stayed his hand. Neal, as though reading his mind, gave him a soft smile instead. “Until tonight,” Neal said.

“Tonight,” Peter said, like a promise, and forced himself to turn away.

Neal was early for his practice session that afternoon. He changed in the locker room, then went to find Mozzie and Sara. It wasn’t the first time he’d practiced since arriving, but it was the first time the cameras would be active, and the first time he’d be practicing in front of the judges. He couldn’t afford to let it distract him; his quad had been better than ever the last couple of weeks, and that was what they needed to see.

He couldn’t afford to let Peter distract him either, as much as he wanted to. He was glad they’d been able to put the Michael issue to rest so quickly; he hadn’t wanted it distracting either of them. Besides, everything Neal had told Peter was true - Michael had taken it well. The only thing he’d left out was that Michael had definitely guessed who it was, and quickly.

“You’re seeing someone?” Michael had said. “That’s great, Neal, who is it? Do I know him?”

“Not exactly,” Neal had said. He’d wanted to tell Michael, was the thing. Michael was a friend. Even when they’d been competing against each other in pairs, he’d been a friend. Neal knew he’d be happy for him, and so he’d wanted to tell him. But he wasn’t sure how Peter would feel about it.

“‘Not exactly’?” Michael repeated. “What kind of answer is that?”

“A deliberately vague one,” Neal replied dryly. “Look, I can’t say. It’s complicated.”

Michael’s eyebrows went up. “What is complicated, Neal?” Neal opened his mouth to reply, even though he had no idea what he was going to say. But then Michael held his hand up, and Neal could _see_ the lightbulb in his head turning on. “Wait, let me guess. He is another athlete, competing here, but in a sport that is not so tolerant as figure skating. So he is not out. Am I right?”

“Yeah,” Neal said, reluctantly. He wasn’t going to lie to Michael, not when he so clearly had it all figured out.

Michael smiled, somewhat apologetically. “So I _did_ interrupt something earlier.”

“Maybe,” Neal admitted.

“Well, I am sorry about that. But I hope you know what you’re doing. Dating someone who is in the closet is difficult.”

“God, now you sound like Moz,” Neal said with a sigh. “Between the two of you, who needs a mother?”

“Moz and I both worry about you. We just -”

“Don’t want me to get hurt, I know,” Neal said. “But I am a grown man, you know, and I can make my own choices. And my own mistakes, if it comes to that.”

“That is true,” Michael replied with a shrug. “Well, I wish you the best of luck. I press my thumbs for you and Peter.” He held up both fists in demonstration, thumbs tucked inside his crooked index fingers. “And because we are speaking English, I also cross my fingers, though I think that’s a silly way to wish someone luck.”

Neal had smiled. “Thanks, Michael. That means a lot.”

And it had. But Neal had known that he couldn’t let Peter go on thinking he’d hooked up with Michael. He might’ve been well within his rights to sleep with whomever he wanted, but he’d known that even if Peter said he was all right with it, he really wouldn’t be. Peter, for all that he was older than Neal, had considerably less experience, and Neal knew this was a big deal for him. He was risking more than Neal, and if he thought Neal wasn’t taking this as seriously as he was, he’d be hurt. But Neal thought their conversation at breakfast that morning had put Peter’s worries to rest.

Moz was staying in Olympic Village not far from him. But Sara, being neither a coach nor an athlete, was staying in Salzburg proper with June, so he hadn’t seen her in a couple of days. He’d been wondering how she’d do, being here and not competing, but to his relief she seemed happy when he saw her at the practice rink. She was wearing a _Salzburg 2014_ sweatshirt, which made him raise his eyebrows. Even in practice sessions, Sara never wore a _sweatshirt_.

“What, I’m not allowed to be a tourist?” she said, when he smirked at it.

“Enough chit chat,” Moz said abruptly, even though there’d only been about six words of it. “We’ve got the rink for two hours and I intend to make the most of them.”

After that, Neal didn’t have enough breath for chit chat. Moz worked him hard enough that he forgot about the cameras and the judges watching, forgot about anything but his body and even that was operating mostly on muscle memory. He was vaguely aware of the other skaters on the ice, enough that there weren’t any unfortunate collisions, but that was all.

Two hours went by in a blink. He landed the quad twice; he fell on it once, but that was better than he’d expected. He felt a little disoriented when they were finally called off the ice, so that it could be prepped for the next group of skaters.

“Good work,” Moz said.

Neal looked up from putting his blade guards on and blinked at him. “What?”

“I said, _good work_ ,” Moz replied, deliberately over-enunciating.

Neal looked at Sara in confusion. Sara shrugged. “You heard him right.”

Moz frowned. “You’d think I’d never given you positive feedback before.”

“You have,” Neal allowed, and finished putting his blade guards on, “but it’s always been followed by a ‘but.’ ‘Good work on the spins, but your jumps lacked height.’ ‘Nice height on the triple axel but you were clearly phoning in that combination spin.’ I’ve never heard you say ‘good work’ with no caveat.”

“That’s not true,” Moz objected.

“It’s totally true,” Sara said. “I’ve never heard it either.”

Moz threw his hands up. “Fine. You did good out there. Your spins had great form, and your jumps had great height. You’re skating the best you’ve ever skated. Keep it up.” With that, he pulled the collar of his coat up over his neck and left.

“Damn,” Neal said after a moment. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

Sara grinned. “You know what they say about gift horses.” She sat down beside him while he unlaced his skates. “Hey, want to come down into the city with me? I know June would like to see you.”

“Sure,” Neal said. “I can’t stay for too long, though. Peter asked me to go to the women’s hockey game tonight.”

“Did he now,” Sara said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, we won’t keep you from that. Although . . .”

“What?”

“Do you think he’d mind if I came?”

Neal frowned, even as he sipped at the thermos of hot herbal tea he’d brought with him. “I don’t think so. But since when do you like hockey?”

“ _Women’s_ hockey,” Sara corrected him, “which is awesome. Also,” she added, studying her nails, “I was wondering if that friend of his, Clinton Jones, would be there.”

“Ahh,” Neal said, grinning. “Now I get it. Well, I’ll have to check with him to make sure he can get you a seat, but sure.”

“Thank you,” Sara said, leaning into him. “I promise I won’t get in your way.”

Neal threw an arm around her. “You never could. Besides,” he added, standing up to head into the locker rooms, “Peter and Jones are roommates - if you keep Jones busy, I have a much better chance with Peter.”

His afternoon in Salzburg with Sara and June was a pleasant break from the tension and excitement of the village. They walked through the Cathedral and then took in a string quartet the hotel concierge had recommended to June. The city was snow frosted and beautiful, full of music and charm, and the company was excellent; everything would have been perfect, save for Neal’s growing awareness that the tickle in his throat, which he’d chalked up to the dry air that morning, was not going away no matter how much hot tea he drank. By the end of the afternoon, his ears had started to ache as well. But after all, he’d spent the whole afternoon out in the cold, and the streets of Salzburg were windy. He made sure he had enough time to go back to his apartment, where he grabbed a hat, a scarf, and another thermos of hot tea before heading over to the stadium.

Hockey was alarming in person. Neal knew exactly how fast it was possible to move on the ice, but when he was out there, it was only him - and Sara, back in the day - not ten skaters in padding that suddenly seemed totally inadequate. If this was what it was like _with_ rules about bodychecking, as Peter explained to him, then Neal had a hard time imagining what it was like without them.

But it was exciting, there was no doubt about that, even if the game itself was, as Peter had predicted, pretty lopsided. When Neal got bored with the game, he watched Peter, who watched it avidly with an expert eye. Or, alternatively, he watched Sara, who was flirting heavily with Jones, much to Jones’s pleased surprise. Both of these provided relatively effective distractions from the scratchy throat that was becoming progressively scratchier.

After the game was over, they waited to congratulate Diana on her team’s overwhelming victory. She hugged Peter, slugged Jones on the arm, and grinned at Neal before heading off with her teammates to celebrate. Sara and Jones disappeared soon after that, leaving Peter and Neal to walk back to the tram alone.

They just missed one, and there was a fifteen minute wait for the next. Neal listened to Peter expound at length on the strengths of the women’s team while wishing he had any tea left in his thermos. Three hours of sitting in an ice rink had left his nose running and both his head and his ears aching. He couldn’t help but sniffle and clear his throat - not quite a cough, but close. He tried not to - the last thing he wanted to was to call attention to it - but after the second or third time, Peter broke off mid-sentence and said, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Neal said. “Just a throat tickle.”

“Just a throat tickle?” Peter repeated. “Neal, there is no such thing as ‘just a throat tickle’ at the Olympics. Are you getting sick?”

“No,” Neal said, too quickly, only to have Peter give him an incredulous look. “Probably not,” he amended. And then, when Peter still kept staring at him, “Maybe.”

“ _Neal_ ,” Peter said. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t think it was anything,” Neal protested.

“You mean you were hoping it wasn’t anything.”

“Yeah,” Neal sighed, “I guess so. I just need some sleep. I’ve been jet lagged since I got here.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Peter said. “This is the Olympics, Neal. You don’t play Russian Roulette with your health. We’re going to the polyclinic as soon as we get back to the village. They’ll give you some approved cold medication.”

Neal glared at him. “You’re worse than Mozzie.”

“Under these rare circumstances, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The polyclinic in the village resembled a clean, modern emergency room, with a waiting area and a few cubicles in the back. Neal appeared to be their only patient, and so the nurse on duty quickly ushered him into the back. A young doctor poked and prodded him a bit, made him say _ahh_ , looked in his ears, and finally told him he had a cold. Neal barely managed not to roll his eyes, especially when he ended up leaving with an array of over the counter cold medication that’d been approved by the IOC for use by athletes. But there was also a course of antibiotics, because the doctor said she didn’t like the looks of his ears. Neal briefly imagined trying to skate with an ear infection before filling the prescription without further protest.

To add insult to all this injury, she also gave him a face mask and told him to wear it whenever he was out in public until his symptoms abated. The last thing they needed was for a cold virus to start sweeping through Olympic Village. Neal saw the wisdom in it, but all he could think was that he was going to look ridiculous wearing a face mask in practice.

Peter was waiting for him when he finally came out, prescriptions in hand and mask covering his nose and mouth. It was late by then, and Neal wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d left. But he was awfully glad he hadn’t.

“What’s the verdict?” Peter asked, standing.

“The common cold,” Neal said, “though she was worried about my ears, so I have antibiotics.”

“Good,” Peter said. “See, isn’t it better that we came in?”

“Yeah, yeah, except she told me to rest tomorrow and the next day, no practicing, so now I can’t avoid telling Moz. He’s going to be insufferable. And when I’m not in practice tomorrow someone is going to ask why and then the commentators will be all over it like white on rice.”

“A small price to pay for being well enough to compete,” Peter pointed out. “How many days do you have left?”

“We go after the dance and the pairs,” Neal said, “so about five. I should be okay by then.” But the lost practice time was going to sting. Moz had been right earlier; he was skating the best he ever had. He was afraid that if he stopped now, even for just a couple of days, he’d lose his momentum, and whatever ground he’d gained on his quad would be lost. There was no point in whining about that to Peter, though.

Despite Neal’s protests that it was out of Peter’s way and he would be all right getting home on his own, Peter walked him back to his apartment. It was almost eleven by the time they got there; his roommates were either out or asleep. Peter made him sit down on the stiff IKEA sofa in the living room while he made some tea, and then supervised him as he took his first dose of antibiotics, along with some of the nighttime cold medication. Mug of tea in hand, Neal relaxed slowly into Peter’s side. For all that he’d protested, it’d been nice to have someone take charge and force him to act sensibly.

“I had fun tonight.”

“Hmm,” Peter said. “Sitting in a cold rink for a couple hours probably didn’t do you any favors.”

“No, but I’m glad I went anyway.” Neal let his head fall to rest against Peter’s shoulder. “Your first game is tomorrow, right?”

“Yes, tomorrow evening. I was going to ask you to come but you’ll have to watch it on TV instead.”

“I will,” Neal promised, snuggling closer to Peter. “Are you going to go out with the team afterward?”

“Probably, but I’ll see if I can get away early enough to stop by. Now come on,” Peter said. “To bed with you.”

“Would rather to bed with _you_ ,” Neal replied sleepily, prompting a laugh from Peter.

“Me too, but it’s not in the cards tonight.” Peter pulled Neal to his feet and helped him shuffle over to the door to his room. There they paused. Peter brushed his lips across Neal’s forehead - not quite the kiss Neal was hoping for, but he couldn’t blame Peter for not wanting to expose himself. “Get some rest, all right?”

“I will,” Neal said. He leaned in the threshold and waited until Peter had let himself out before closing the bedroom door.

His own roommate, one of the dancers, wasn’t in, but that was to be expected, since he was married to his partner. Neal changed into warm pajamas and crawled under the covers, glad despite himself that Peter had forced him to see a doctor. He really felt like crap, and left to his own devices he probably would have stayed in denial until it was too late to do anything about it.

Moz was just as insufferable the next day as Neal had feared, and even though Neal knew it was only out of concern, that didn’t make his mother-henning less annoying. He hovered until Neal finally kicked him out, and then Neal curled up in his bed with his laptop to watch some of the snowboarding coverage and nap intermittently. His teammates were giving him a wide berth, and Neal didn’t blame them. He wouldn’t have wanted to risk catching something either.

He was dozing to a recap of the previous day’s events when the mention of his name caused Neal to open one eye just in time to see a shot of him and Sara in the stands with Peter and Jones. “Turning out to support their teammates on Team USA were figure skater Neal Caffrey, his choreographer Sara Ellis, and Peter Burke and Clinton Jones from the men’s hockey team. You don’t see much interaction between the hockey players and the figure skaters, do you, Jane?” the commentator said, turning to his female co-anchor.

“You don’t,” the woman - Jane, Neal supposed - said. “But it’s the Olympics, so everyone pulls together to support each other, especially in the team sports, like hockey. Burke and Caffrey both train in Buffalo, so it’s possible they were friends before the games started. And Jones was looking very friendly indeed with Sara Ellis.”

Neal snorted in amusement and closed his eyes to go back to sleep.

He was feeling a lot better by that evening - still congested, but his ears didn’t hurt at least. Michael, who’d heard through the grapevine that Neal was under the weather, showed up just as the hockey game was starting. He heated Neal up some of the soup Moz had brought him earlier and pulled a chair up next to Neal’s bed so they could both watch.

It was the first time he’d gotten to see Peter play outside his scrimmages with Diana and Jones at the rink in Buffalo. Watching the game on his laptop screen wasn’t ideal - he could barely see the puck - but listening to the commentators helped. Peter’s return after being out for months with his injury was apparently one of the big stories of the night, and the commentators openly speculated about whether he was really ready. “I’ll guess we’ll find out,” one of them said, unnecessarily ominously, in Neal’s opinion, and then the game started.

The U.S. was playing Slovenia, and like the women’s game the night before, this one obviously wasn’t very well matched. The U.S. scored two goals in the first five minutes. Neither of them were by Peter, but it was still exciting. Less exciting, though, as the game went on in pretty much that same way. Peter seemed to have a good game, even if he didn’t score a goal, and by the end the commentators seemed to have concluded that he was back in shape.

“And that’s really down to his own determination,” one of them said as the clock ran down on the last two minutes of the game. “A lot of people would’ve decided there was no way they’d be back in time for the Olympics with a broken leg, but Burke really pushed himself.”

“Not sure if there’s much he can do for the Sabres at this point,” the other commentator said. “They’ve had such an abysmal season so far.”

“I don’t know, I think the verdict’s still out on that. Burke’s not just a great defenseman, he’s also a leader, and I think with him back we’re going to be seeing a very different side of the Buffalo Sabres. Speaking of which, Clinton Jones has the puck and he’s broken away from the crowd - we might be getting one last goal in tonight - yes! Straight into the net at the buzzer. Eight to one here tonight, and well done, Team USA.”

Michael started to turn it off, but Neal swatted his hand away. “Post-game interviews,” he said.

Michael rolled his eyes. “You’ve got it so bad. And for a _hockey player_.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Neal asked with a frown.

“Just that hockey players, they aren’t exactly geniuses.”

“And most figure skaters are?” Neal replied, dryly.

Michael waved his hand. “One must have a sense of aesthetics for figure skating. A sense of _art_. This skating back and forth and back and forth after a tiny puck and slamming into each other, that does not require thought.”

“Peter has a degree in applied mathematics from Boston College,” Neal said. “They don’t hand those out in the parking lot, you know. It’s more education than I have, that’s for sure.”

Michael opened his mouth to respond, but Neal waved him silent because Peter had just appeared on the screen, and the interviewer was shoving a mike in his face. “So, how does it feel to be back after so long on the injured reserve list?”

Peter was grinning from ear to ear. Just seeing him so happy made Neal happy. “It feels great. I’ve been practicing a lot, but I’ve really missed being out on the ice with my team.”

“Were you happy with your performance tonight?”

“I was,” Peter said. “Practices have been going well, our lines have really been gelling. We all play for different teams in the NHL, but that doesn’t matter here. Honestly, I think this team is capable of great things.”

It was so like Peter, Neal thought, to take a question that had been about him - the interviewer clearly hadn’t meant that _you_ to be collective - and make it about the team. Neal had never really been into team sports himself - not that ice skating had left much room for other sports, but he’d done a little running and swimming over the years, both solitary pursuits. He and Sara had been a team, though, and he still mourned the loss of that.

“Great things, like a gold medal?” the interviewer asked. “You guys are definitely in contention for the podium, but Canada’s team is a real powerhouse, and the Finns, Swedes, and Russians are all contenders as well. Do you think you could beat them if it came down to the two of you in the gold medal game?”

“Canada has some great players,” Peter said, “including some I’ve played with on the Sabres for years. But I think we’ve got a great shot at it.”

“One last thing before we let you go,” the woman said, just as Peter was obviously about to turn away. “You and Neal Caffrey were spotted out and about last night at the women’s game, but we didn’t see him here tonight. Care to comment?”

Peter didn’t even miss a beat. “Neal and I shared ice in Buffalo for a little while. He’s a good guy and a great friend. I’ve been trying to win him over to hockey, but he couldn’t make it tonight.”

The woman obviously thought that was adorable. “What about you, has he won you over to figure skating?”

“He’s working on it,” Peter said with a grin, and the interview ended.

There wasn’t likely to be any more Peter, so Neal let Michael turn it off. He sat back, feeling tired and ready for a shower and bed, even though he’d slept most of the day. Michael got up and took his soup mug and his tea into the kitchen, then came back and leaned in the doorway, looking at him.

“What?” Neal asked, irritably.

“That didn’t bother you?” Michael said. “That he said you were a friend?”

“A great friend,” Neal corrected, “and no. What was he supposed to say? _We shared ice in Buffalo and also we boned once_? Yeah, _once_ ,” he added, when Michael looked incredulous. “We didn’t have a whole lot of time, and we’ve both been a little busy since then.”

Michael shrugged. “Okay, then. Do you need anything?”

“Nah, I’m okay,” Neal said. “I’m going to take a shower and go to sleep.”

“You will call me if you do need anything?”

“I will,” Neal promised, and saw him out.

The hot shower felt good and left him sleepy and relaxed, as well as breathing better. He made himself some toast and another mug of tea, pretending all the while that he wasn’t waiting for Peter to text him and say whether he was going to make it by or not.

His phone finally buzzed as he was climbing back into bed. _Hey, hope you’re feeling better,_ Peter had written. _I don’t think I’m going to be able to break away in time to stop by._

 _No problem,_ Neal replied, even though he was disappointed. But he got it; after a victory like that, Peter probably both wanted and needed to be with his team. _Congrats on the win. Maybe tomorrow?_

_Definitely. Late morning okay? I’ll bring lunch._

_Perfect,_ Neal replied. Most of his roommates would be out then.

Neal set his phone on his nightstand and then curled up under the blankets on the still unfamiliar mattress. Michael could think what he wanted, and so could Moz, he thought. He knew that this thing with Peter was worth it, every little bit of it.


	2. Chapter 2

Elizabeth was waiting for Peter when he got out of post-game interviews. “Nice job,” she said, falling into step beside him.

“Thanks for the heads up,” Peter said. She’d told him right before he’d gone in that the press had noticed him and Neal together at the women’s game last night and might ask about it, so he’d had a minute or two to prep himself.

“That’s my job,” El said, shrugging. “Though between you and me, if you and Neal wanted to do an interview or a shoot together - well, the fans already think it’s pretty cool that you two are friends, cross-sport communication and friendship and patriotic solidarity and all that. Might make it easier later.”

 _Later_ , as in, if he decided to come out. “Maybe,” Peter said, noncommittally. “Neal’s sort of under the weather right now, that’s why he wasn’t here tonight. I’ll see if he’s up for it.”

“Good. I’ll let you go, but we’ll talk tomorrow. Good game tonight!”

“Thanks!” Peter said, waving to her as she headed off.

From there he was swamped by his teammates and carried off to celebrate at a bar in the city. Within minutes, he realized he was never going to be able to get away without calling attention to himself; even just taking a minute or two to shoot Neal a text earned him some ribbing, and he ended up having to buy the next round just to get them off his back. Peter managed to relax a little after that, enjoying the company and the beer, but he couldn’t help but worry about Neal. He’d see him the next morning, he reminded himself, and tried to pay closer attention to what was going on around him.

He got back to his apartment later than he’d intended, and slept late the next morning. They had a rest day, but Diana had a game that night, and he’d planned to meet his parents for dinner in Salzburg beforehand. But first, he’d promised Neal that he’d bring lunch. His cooking skills were decidedly limited, but he could manage scrambled eggs and toast.

It was a little after eleven when Peter knocked on Neal’s door, grocery bag in hand. Neal answered promptly, fully dressed and looking significantly better than he had the other night when Peter had brought him home from the clinic. “Hey,” Neal said, stepping aside. He waited until Peter had closed the door behind him and then hugged him. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Peter said and pressed his face into Neal’s neck briefly. Neal smelled freshly showered. “You watched?”

“I did. But I prefer to see you in person.” Neal leaned into him, and Peter wrapped his arm around his waist. He sounded a little rough, Peter thought critically, but his eyes were bright and he had good color.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. I’m taking today off, but I should be back in practice by tomorrow. What’d you bring me?” he asked, eyeing the grocery bag. “I hope it isn’t soup.”

“No soup,” Peter confirmed. “Eggs and toast?”

“Eggs and toast sound great,” Neal said with a smile.

The kitchenette in the apartment wasn’t much to write home about, but it was enough for Peter’s purposes. Neal dragged over one of the chairs from the living room and sprawled across it to chat with him while he scrambled eggs and sliced up fruit. He was coughing intermittently, deeper and wetter than Peter liked to hear, but he was probably already on everything the polyclinic could give him without disqualifying him from competition.

The eggs turned out great, much to Peter’s relief. Once they’d demolished them, they sat on the sofa together, picking at the fruit and - the only word Peter had for it was _snuggling_. He was sure it was hopelessly domestic, but the truth was that he’d never had it before, not once in his whole life, and he liked it. He knew he should probably worry that someone would come in and catch them, but he wasn’t. _Let them_ , he thought.

He ended up falling asleep on top of Neal right there on the sofa. He woke, confused and disoriented, some time later to someone knocking on the door to the apartment. 

Neal stirred beside him. “What?” he mumbled.

“Someone’s at the door,” Peter said, rubbing a hand over his face.

The knock repeated.

“Iambic pentameter. That’s Mozzie,” Neal said, and went to let him in.

Mozzie looked neither surprised nor happy to see Peter. “Mouthguard,” he greeted him.

“Mozzie,” Peter replied, managing not to roll his eyes. He hung back while Moz asked Neal a series of pointed questions about how he was feeling, forced him to drink a glass of extra pulpy OJ while Neal grimaced and said he preferred not being able to chew his juice, and then gave him some sort of all natural herbal stuff he swore he’d run by the doctors over at the clinic. “It’s derived from honey,” Moz said. “Which has natural healing properties. There are no chemicals in it to show up in a drug test.”

Neal was obviously used to humoring Moz’s stranger impulses. “Okay, fine,” he said, and swallowed it.

“Now, do you think you’ll be ready to start practicing again tomorrow?” Moz asked.

“With bells and my face mask on,” Neal said with a grimace.

“Because if you aren’t, then you should wait another day - you don’t want to have a relapse.”

“I’m feeling a lot better,” Neal said, “and I think I’m starting to physically itch from inactivity. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Good,” Mozzie said. “We have the rink at eleven. Call me if you need anything?”

“I will,” Neal said, and ushered him toward the door.

At the threshold, Moz paused and looked back toward Peter. “Mouthguard.”

Peter had to stifle a laugh. “Bye, Moz,” he said. Moz scowled at him suspiciously and left.

“Sorry about that,” Neal said, shutting the door behind him.

“He is a strange one,” Peter said, shaking his head. “I mean, I know that none of us, coaches or athletes, are exactly normal by any standards, but Moz is -”

“Unique, I know,” Neal said, sitting down on the sofa beside Peter. “But he’s stuck with me through some really hard times. Most coaches would’ve just dumped me after Sara couldn’t skate anymore. Most coaches wouldn’t have been able to make that switch with me, actually, but Moz is, if nothing else, versatile. He stuck by me. I owe him for that.”

Peter nodded. That sounded like team loyalty to him, and that was something he understood. He glanced at his watch. “I have to go. I’m meeting my parents for dinner in Salzburg in forty minutes.”

Neal nodded. “When’s your next game?”

“We play Russia tomorrow night. It should be a good one, much more of an actual match than the Slovenia game. You want to come?”

“I do,” Neal said. “Even if it does mean wearing a face mask in public.”

“Well, if anyone can make it look good -”

“ _No one_ ,” Neal interjected with a wry grin. “ _No one_ rocks a face mask. But thank you,” he added, smile softening in a way that made Peter’s stomach feel warm.

Dinner with his parents and his younger sister Helena in Salzburg was a refreshing change of pace from the food in the village. They went to an Austrian place, and since none of them knew anything about Austrian food, told their server to just bring them whatever was good. The food was excellent, the beer even better, and halfway through their meal two musicians trooped in, one lugging a cello and the other a violin, and set up on the small stage at the front of the house.

“Local music students,” their server explained. “They play for tips.” They played beautifully to Peter’s admittedly untrained ear. He dropped a fifty Euro bill into their basket as they left, causing the cellist to beam her thanks at him.

His parents and his sister had tickets to Diana’s game, so they all caught a cab over to the stadium together. In the car, his sister got on her phone and started scrolling through the latest headlines, reading out the ones about Peter or Diana. Mostly they were about Peter’s first couple of games, which, he was extremely relieved to hear, had put to rest most of the talk about him not being ready to play.

“Here’s something interesting,” Helena said after a few seconds of silence. “A sidebar about your friendship with Neal Caffrey. Wait, I didn’t know you were friends with Neal Caffrey.”

Peter shrugged. “We shared a rink in Buffalo.”

“So the article tells me. Cute photo,” she said, and handed him her phone so he could see. It was a photo taken of the two of them at Diana’s game the other night. Peter was watching the game, it looked like, and Neal was watching him.

“Thanks,” Peter said, and handed it back.

“You know he’s gay, right?” Helena said. Peter frowned at her. She shrugged. “I only say this because you can be totally oblivious, and he looks like he’s into you.”

“He does not,” Peter said, even though Neal kind of did. He was smiling sort of dopily. 

“He definitely does. Here, Mom, tell Peter.” Helena handed their mother the phone.

“That is possibly the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” Peter’s mother said.

“Thanks, dear,” Peter’s father said from the front seat.

Peter’s mom reached out and patted his shoulder reassuringly. “You’re handsome, honey. Neal Caffrey is _beautiful_. And he does look like he’s into you, Peter,” she added, and handed the phone back.

Peter sighed, weighing his options. He didn’t want to lie to his parents and his sister; for one thing, if they found out later they’d be furious. And it wasn’t like _they_ didn’t know he was gay. But he wasn’t crazy about telling them in a cab with a driver who might or might not speak enough English to understand them and sell the story to the tabloids.

“We’ll talk about this after we get out, okay?” he finally muttered, causing even his father to turn around in his seat and look at him.

They climbed out of the cab in the drop-off zone near the stadium, and his family turned, pretty much as one unit, to look at him expectantly. “We’re seeing each other,” Peter said, with maximum awkwardness. “Neal Caffrey and me, I mean. Not for very long,” he added hastily, so that his mom didn't kill him. “But, um.”

Helena was, predictably, the one to react first. She squealed and hugged him. “That’s great! Wow, I’m jealous, I could never land someone as gorgeous as Caffrey. How did _you_ manage it?”

“He _len_ a,” his mother admonished.

Peter laughed. “No, it’s okay. I’m not really sure. Harry at the rink double-booked the ice one morning and I met him and from there it just kind of . . . happened.”

“Do you think you could get him to sign something for me?” Helena asked. Her eyes went wide. “Wait, do you think I could _meet_ him?”

“You will, actually, tomorrow night. He’s coming to my game. But please don’t make a big deal out of this,” Peter added, looking pleadingly at each of them. “We’re keeping it on the down low for now. He’s out but I’m, you know, not, and neither of us needs a distraction right now.”

“Of course, sweetie,” his mom said, and hugged him. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Me too, son,” his dad said, a little gruffly. He put his arm around Peter and squeezed his shoulders. Peter smiled. His dad had always struggled more with the whole gay thing than his mom had, but he’d also put a lot of effort toward being okay with it. Peter knew he was probably slightly weirded out, but he would never treat Neal - or Peter - badly because of it.

The women were playing Norway that night, and it was a much more interesting game than the one against Japan had been. Norway was definitely a favorite to medal, maybe even to win it all, and the two teams really went for it. Diana got sent to the penalty box twice for illegal body checking. Peter sighed, wondering if she’d ever learn. But the rest of the team managed to keep Norway from scoring on the power play, so he guessed it didn’t actually do any harm. He wondered if she might have been doing it on purpose; there were scouts for European men’s teams rumored to be in the audience. The Europeans were more open to recruiting women than the NHL was or possibly ever would be, and that was something Diana had talked about doing in moments of frustration with the situation for women’s hockey in North America.

Awesome as that would be for Diana, losing her to the Czech Republic or Finland would suck. Peter couldn’t drive to the Czech Republic to have a beer with her, and he’d barely be able to watch her games except during international tournaments. But he couldn’t begrudge her the opportunity if it came. 

It was a hard-fought game. Regulation play ended tied two to two, but the U.S. managed to end things two minutes into the sudden-death overtime with a gorgeous goal by Diana, right over the goalie’s head, through about a two-inch gap, and into the backside of the net. Peter jumped to his feet along with everyone else in his section and yelled until his throat was hoarse.

He and Helena went out afterward with the team to celebrate, and for the second day in a row, Peter got back to his room in the Village later than he’d intended. He slept late again the next morning, and he and Neal both had practice in the afternoon, so between one thing and another he and Neal only managed a couple of texts during the day.

 _How was your practice?_ Peter sent during a break in his own schedule.

 _I don’t want to talk about it_ , Neal replied. Peter winced. Neal hadn’t said anything, but Peter knew he had to be worried about what the break in his training and the issues with his health would do to his skating. Peter would’ve worried about it, too, if he’d been the one who’d gotten sick. _I watched Diana’s game last night. That was way more interesting than yours._

 _The one tonight should be good,_ Peter replied, _You still up for it?_

_You better believe it._

Peter paused then, but he couldn’t let Neal walk in and find himself sitting next to Peter’s parents with no warning. _Just FYI, my parents and my sister will be there. They know, but they won’t make a big deal out of it. I hope._

 _Cool. Thanks for letting me know,_ was all Neal replied. _Good luck!_

 _Thanks,_ Peter replied, and put his phone away so he could get back out on the ice.

Ever since the “miracle on ice,” U.S.-Russia games had been fraught. Or, well, maybe it was more like, ever since _the Cold War_ , U.S.-Russia games had been fraught. Sochi had been one of the contenders for this Olympics, Peter recalled, and he was just as glad they hadn’t won. Playing Russia anywhere was tough enough, but playing them in Russia would’ve been exponentially tougher.

Even without that added complication, this was a hard game, and a rough one, too. Russia had a couple of huge guys, and they weren’t shy about throwing their weight around. Peter was used to being body-checked into the boards, and these were more padded and springy than the ones at home. But he took a couple of hits that left him breathless and one at the end of the second period that left his ears ringing.

“You okay?” Jones asked as they skated off the ice. “That looked like a hard hit.”

“Yeah, think so,” Peter said. Definitely harder than anything he’d taken in the last game. He supposed he should get used to it; once they got into the elimination rounds, there wouldn’t be any more cakewalks.

The coach sent out a different line at the beginning of the third period, giving Peter a slightly longer break. His head was aching a little from the hit, and he knew he’d have bruises the next day. But it wasn’t anything he hadn’t played through before, and when the coach sent them back out there a few minutes in, Peter was ready to go. They were tied one to one, and they _were not_ going to let this go into overtime.

And they didn’t. With about two minutes to go, Peter intercepted the puck, passed it to Jones, and Jones broke away from the crowd, powering up the length of the rink to take a complete hail Mary shot. It wasn’t quite as gorgeous as the one Diana had won with the night before, but it went in, right through the Russian goalie’s hands. Jones raised his hands to the cheering of the crowd, and then came over to hug Peter.

“Nice shot,” Peter said.

“Thanks,” Jones said. “Let’s get it done.”

The last two minutes were some of the hardest hockey Peter had ever played, and he’d played in the Stanley Cup Final last year. There were more than a few dicey moments, but they managed to hold onto their lead by the tips of their fingernails. When the buzzer sounded at the end of third period, they were still up by one. The rest of the team swarmed over the boards, and Peter let himself get swept up on the celebration, grinning until his face hurt.

By the time he made it back to the locker room to shower and change, Peter was exhausted. Also bruised all over, and once the adrenaline wore off, he’d probably have a limp. One of the Russians had accidentally-on purpose whacked him in the knee with his stick in the last thirty seconds, and he could tell it was going to start bothering him soon. A bunch of his teammates were talking about going out to celebrate, but all Peter wanted was an ice pack or three and his bed.

It was probably fortunate that the game had been exciting enough on its own that there were no post-game questions about Neal this time, because Peter honestly had no idea what he'd said once he left the press room. He suspected it probably boiled down to, "Game hard, Russia good, winning nice," but El looked approving, so he must've been able to locate a few verbs after all.

His parents, Helena, Diana, and Neal were waiting for him when he came out. “Hey,” he said, trying to hide the limp as he went over to meet them. From the sharp looks both Neal and his mother gave him, he wasn’t very successful.

"Good game, boss!" Diana said. "Looked like fun."

“If by _fun_ you mean _terrifying_ ,” Neal replied. He’d ditched the face mask, Peter noticed, but he was bundled up against the cold. “I watched those last two minutes through my fingers.”

“You and me both,” Helena said.

“And me,” his mother said, patting Neal on the shoulder. “It wasn’t the first time, either. But you played very well,” she added, and hugged Peter.

“Yeah, that was a hard-fought game, and you did great,” his dad added, and slung his arm around his shoulder. “Can we take you out and celebrate?”

"Yeah, come on," Diana said. "If anything ever deserved a beer, that game did."

Part of Peter thought she was right, but the rest of him just wanted his bed. “Thanks, but I think I’d better have an early night.”

“I think you’d better ice that knee,” his mother said shrewdly. “Are you sure you don’t need to see someone?”

Peter shook his head. “It’s all bumps and bruises, I’ll be okay with some ice and some rest.”

“All right,” she said. “You know best, of course. But make sure you get both those things.”

“I will,” he promised.

“I’ll make sure he does,” Neal added.

His mother smiled at him. “Thank you. That makes me feel better.”

“Come on, then,” Neal said to him. “I owe you a walk home.”

They said goodnight to Peter's family and Diana and headed back to the tram stop, deftly avoiding Peter's teammates who were clearly heading down into Salzburg to celebrate. The tram was crowded and they had to stand, holding onto the rails overhead. By the time they reached the village, Peter had stiffened up; he had to stifle a groan as his knee twinged when they stepped off the tram.

Neal gave him a sidelong glance. "Do I need to return the favor and force you to go to the polyclinic?"

Peter grimaced. "No. I have approved painkillers back at the apartment and they can't give me anything stronger without disqualifying me from play. But," he added, as inspiration struck, "there is another favor you could return for me."

'What's - _oh_. The backrub?"

"If you're so moved."

"I'm moved," Neal said with a smirk. "I'm way moved. You have no idea how moved I am."

Peter grinned. "Thanks. You must be feeling better. No face mask."

"Yeah. I did wear it in practice this afternoon. God, I felt so stupid, plus now there's all this speculation online about my health. I'm feeling a lot better, though." They walked on, avoiding athletes on bicycles and a clump of drunk snowboarders. Peter was about to ask what was up with the snowboarders - had they just been drunk since the opening ceremonies? - when Neal said, "I didn't land a single quad this afternoon."

"Oh," Peter said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"I tried three before I gave up. I didn't want to hurt myself, and I wasn't missing them by a little, I was missing them by a lot." He shook his head. "I don't know. Moz thinks I can win without one, and maybe he's right. But I'd be the only one of the top ten, assuming I make the top ten, not doing it."

Peter was quiet for a minute. Then he said, "What would be better, to try and fail or to stick to what you know you can do?"

Neal shrugged. "In terms of the scoring, it's probably better for me to try and fail, unless I fail so spectacularly that I can’t skate the rest of my program. Not likely," he said, when Peter looked at him askance, "but possible. On the other hand, there's something to be said for skating a clean program, which almost no one does anymore. And if I land all of my other jumps, and if all my spins are level four . . . Moz is right. I could do it. And there might be something satisfying about it."

"About what?" Peter asked.

"About reminding people that there's more to the sport than how many rotations you can do in the air."

"Hmm," Peter said, as they reached his building. He keyed them inside and led Neal up the stairs. "Sounds like you might've made up your mind."

"I might have. But I'll see how tomorrow's practice goes. So," Neal looked around the apartment, "you want something to eat? An ice pack?"

"Yes and yes," Peter said, suddenly realizing that he was starving.

Neal opened the fridge. “There’s nothing in here but protein shakes.”

“Yeah, I know,” Peter said. “I’ll probably drink at least three of those, I usually do after a game.” Neal grimaced but nodded, and Peter went off to take a couple of the approved painkillers, which in his experience barely put a dent in things. Then he sat down on the apartment’s uncomfortable sofa with a collection of protein shakes on one side of him and Neal on the other, an ice pack draped over his knee.

Neal waited until he was comfortable before edging in closer. “Hey,” he said quietly. “We didn’t get to do this before.”

“What?” Peter said, and Neal kissed him. Peter tensed briefly, wondering what he would do if someone walked in. But he’d locked the door, so they’d have some warning at least. He pulled Neal closer and kissed him back, feeling himself release some of the tension he’d been holding onto since the game. By the end of the kiss, he felt tired but relaxed. “Mmm,” he said, when Neal pulled away.

“Better?” Neal asked.

“You’re magic,” Peter said, before he could stop himself.

Neal laughed and lay his head on Peter’s shoulder. “That was just a kiss. Imagine what the backrub is going to be like.”

Peter rested his cheek against the top of Neal’s head. “Gimme just a few minutes, I’m pretty happy right where I am.”

“Me too. So tell me,” Neal added, “what happens now?”

“Now, we play an one more group game and then an elimination round. Then whoever’s left will play each other to figure out who’s going to be in the gold medal game and who’s going to be in the bronze medal game. But I have a couple days before I play again.” He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “I think it’ll be us and Canada in the gold medal game. That’s always tough.”

“Tough like Russia tough?” Neal asked. “Because I have to say, the last two minutes of that game tonight were the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen in real life.”

“No - well, yeah, sort of,” Peter said. “It’ll be a rough game. But I meant that it’s tough because I know all those guys. Three of my own teammates from the Sabres are on Team Canada.”

“Oh. Yeah, I can see how that’d be tough.”

Peter opened his eyes to look at Neal, but all he could see from this angle was the top of his head. “Did it bother you that the game was so rough? That’s the second time you’ve called it ‘terrifying.’”

“Because it was,” Neal said, and sat up. “I mean, I knew it was rough - I’ve watched Diana throw you around on the ice, and I watched your game the other night on TV. And I’ve seen Diana play, and I don’t care what the rules are about bodychecking, they’re pretty damn serious.”

“But . . .” Peter prompted.

Neal shrugged. “But it was different in person. I felt like I was watching you get beat up and not only couldn’t I do anything about it, I was supposed to sit there and find it _entertaining_.”

Peter winced. “Not all games are like that.”

“I know,” Neal said. “I know. And you love it, I get that. Your mom says that’s what she tells herself.”

“I do,” Peter said. “And injuries are part of it. They’re part of any sport. I’ve actually had way fewer concussions than most people I know,” he added, trying to joke, but from the look Neal gave him, Peter didn’t think he found it funny.

“I made a joke about that,” Neal said, clearly horrified, “the first time we went out to breakfast. You told me I should’ve gone into hockey and I made a joke about passing on the repeated concussions. And you _laughed_.”

“Neal, it was just a joke.”

“I don’t know how it can be,” Neal replied flatly. “How can it be just a joke when - Peter, it’s your brain.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Peter said. “It’s _my_ brain. And I’m careful, Neal, as careful as I can be, and I’m damn good at what I do. Tonight’s game was rough. I wish you’d seen a different one the first time you saw me play live, because it’s not always like that.” Neal nodded, but Peter could tell that he was still bothered by it, and Peter didn’t know what to do about that. “People get concussions in figure skating, too,” he pointed out after a moment. “At least I wear a helmet.”

“True,” Neal said, with a smile that looked a little weak. “You’re right, injuries happen in all sports. I know people who’ve had multiple back surgeries just to be able to skate.” He shook his head. “Sorry, I just - I think I wasn’t prepared.”

“It’s okay,” Peter said, and tightened his arm around Neal’s shoulders.

Peter got through two of his protein shakes before he started falling asleep. He would’ve been happy just sleeping on the sofa, but Neal hauled him up and made him change into his pajama bottoms before stretching out face down on the bed. He heard Neal lock the bedroom door before climbing up on the bed and straddling the backs of Peter’s thighs. Peter heard a cap pop on something and then the sounds of Neal rubbing lotion between his hands.

Neal’s weight shifted forward and he swept his hands across Peter’s shoulders, back in, and then down his spine. He started at the base of Peter’s spine and working his way up, finding all the knots and working them until they released. Peter concentrated on breathing and not tensing up when Neal hit a sore spot. There were a lot of sore spots after that game. But it also felt good, just being touched, and Peter wondered how he’d gone without this for so long. Not that people didn’t touch him - hockey players were downright handsy with their teammates - but definitely no one had touched him like this since before he cared to remember.

After a while it all started to hurt a lot less and Peter was able to relax. He thought Neal would get up and leave then, but he just kept touching Peter, almost meditatively, until Peter was on the verge of falling asleep.

Which of course when was the door to the apartment opened. Peter felt Neal sit up and draw in a quick breath, but Peter just reached back and pressed a hand to his leg. “They might just go to bed,” he said, but then he realized that it wasn’t just one person coming back, but a whole group, and they were _loud_. “Crap,” he said, right as someone rattled the door to the bedroom. “Peter!” Jones’s voice said, drunkenly cheerful. “Are you awake?”

“Um,” Neal said, “do you want me to -”

“What, hide under the bed?” Peter replied. “Go out the window? No, I’m not - I’m not going to be _that_ guy.” He got up and pulled a sweatshirt on. “I’m going to try and get rid of them, but if I can’t . . .”

“If you can’t?” Neal said.

Peter looked at him. “I’m not going to hide this like it’s something shameful. I’ve done enough of that and these guys are my teammates. If one of them wants to go to the press and make a big deal out of it and cause a huge distraction during the Olympics, then that’s their decision.” With that, he got up to unlock the door and face Jones.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Jones said. “Why was the door locked?”

“Why do you think?” Peter replied, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“. . . oh,” Jones said, peering past Peter to see Neal, who was still kneeling on the bed. “Sorry. I didn’t think.”

“No shit,” Peter muttered. “Who’s here?”

“Just, you know - Kegan and Travers and Crowley and, um -”

“And?”

“Roberts.”

The asshole who’d called Neal a figure skating fairy. _Great_. Peter glared.

“He was there, I couldn’t very well invite everyone but him,” Jones said defensively.

“Couldn’t you?” Peter replied, then sighed. “Whatever. I don’t care. He can deal.”

“I can tell them you’re sleeping,” Jones said, “say we have to take the party someplace else.”

“It’d be nice if you did that,” Peter said, “since I actually _would_ like to sleep, but -”

“Burke!” Andrew Crowley called. “You weren’t asleep yet, were you? It’s ten o’clock and we just beat Russia! Come have a beer. Unless,” he paused, suddenly eyeing Peter shrewdly, “you’ve got company.”

“I, uh,” Peter said awkwardly, and found himself holding a beer.

There was a round of catcalls and cheering, and Peter felt himself turning red. “Guys, seriously,” he said over the noise, “you’re not helping.”

“Didn’t know you needed help, Burke,” Roland Kegan replied, smirking. “Hey, can we meet her?”

“No, you can’t,” Peter said, which would’ve been his reply no matter who he’d had in the bedroom.

“Awww, you’re not ashamed of us, are you?”

“Ashamed of a bunch of drunk savages in my living room at ten o’clock? Absolutely.”

“Come on, Burke, we won’t tell,” James Travers said. “Who is it? I bet it’s one of the snowboarders, they are totally -”

“Travs, I will _kill you_ ,” Peter said, and that was when the room went totally silent. Peter knew without having to turn around that Neal had appeared behind him in the doorway, where everyone could see him.

“Hi everyone,” Neal said, cheerfully. “That was a great game you all played tonight. Peter, I’ll text you tomorrow, all right? Have a beer or two, you deserve it.” He slapped Peter on the back, waved to Jones, and let himself out.

More silence. Peter didn't know where to look.

“Well,” Kegan said at last, “that happened.”

“A figure skater, Peter?” Crowley said. “Really?”

“Hey, he could do worse,” Travers said. “You have to admit, objectively-speaking, Caffrey’s got it going on.”

“I admit no such thing,” Crowley replied. “He’s a _figure skater_.”

Peter relaxed, fractionally, and looked at Jones, who was positively radiating guilt even without saying a word. But hey, it seemed like Neal’s worst offense wasn’t being a guy, it was being a figure skater, and if that was true, then Peter would take it.

Roberts, he noticed, hadn’t said a word - not before or after Neal had come out of the bedroom. Peter forced himself to look at him, and he didn’t know what to think about what he saw there. He didn’t look angry or grossed out or anything else Peter had expected. If anything he looked . . . thoughtful. Maybe a little embarrassed. Well, that was surprising. Peter wouldn’t have guessed that Jim Roberts even had the level of self-awareness necessary to recognize when he’d been a jackass.

“Guys, I’m really sorry, but I do want to get some sleep,” Peter said, after another minute or two of ribbing. He handed his beer to Travers. “Feel free to stay here, but if you could maybe tone it down a notch?”

“Sure thing, Peter, thanks,” Jones said, and gave him a look that clearly said, _We cool?_

 _Yeah, but you owe me_ , Peter tried to convey in return. From the sheepish look on Jones’s face, he got the message.

He had a text from Neal waiting for him when he finally made it back into his room. _Call me?_

Peter did. “Hey,” he said, sitting on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” Neal said, quickly. “It’s just, they didn’t seem like they were moving, and you’d said - and I thought -”

“It’s fine,” Peter assured him. “They were cool with it actually.”

“Oh,” Neal said, letting out a long breath. “Thank God. I was worried - I thought I might’ve fucked everything up.”

“You didn’t,” Peter said firmly. “What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

“Packed during the day. Between practice and press, I don’t have much time. The pairs short program is tomorrow night, too, and I need to make sure I’m there to support everyone. Do you think you might be able to make it?”

“Diana’s playing tomorrow night,” Peter said regretfully. “Sounds like we’ll just have to play it by ear.”

“Okay,” Neal said. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Me too,” Peter replied. “Have a good night, Neal.”

“You, too,” Neal said, and disconnected.

Peter set his phone to silent and set it on the nightstand. He took one of the melatonin the trainer had given him and let it dissolve under his tongue. The jet lag had finally eased up, but he didn’t think he’d sleep without it anyway, not after all of that. The Zen state he’d managed to achieve under Neal’s hands seemed like a distant dream.

He could still hear the guys in the living room. But they were keeping it down, just like he’d asked. Peter put some earplugs in and the noise faded out altogether. But his thoughts didn’t.

They knew, he thought, and forced himself to close his eyes. They knew, and the sky hadn’t fallen. It still could, but it hadn’t yet.

Neal barely saw Peter for the next two days. He’d been able to skip watching the ice dance, not having known any of the American teams very well, but he’d known most of the pairs skaters going back at least a decade. June had managed to procure excellent seats for all of them for both the short program and the freeskate; Neal sat beside Sara the first night and tried not to imagine what it would have been like to be here as a team. He’d pulled himself up by his bootstraps in order to be here at all, and he wasn’t going to let bittersweet what-if’s ruin it for him.

Michael and his partner had definitely taken things up a notch since last year’s Worlds. They had a quad twist in their repertoire now, and they landed it beautifully. But there were three other teams, including one from the U.S., that also skated clean programs, and Michael’s partner Katarina had doubled a toe loop in their jumping pass, so there was room for maneuvering going into the freeskate. Neal was cheering for his American teammates, of course, but Dani and Brian were young and had only been together for a couple of years; he didn’t think it was their time yet. And if they couldn’t have it, then he wanted Michael and Katarina to have it.

Neal’s own schedule was heating up as he got closer to his own competition. He had practice in the morning, plus a round of interviews the day of the pairs free skate after lunch. Peter had a practice session in the afternoon, and Diana was playing that night. They texted back and forth all day until Mozzie and Sara threatened to chuck his phone out the window of the moving taxi on the way up to the stadium for the free skate. Neal smiled sheepishly and put his phone away.

He was right about Dani and Brian. They ended up in fourth, with Russia in third, Canada in second, and Germany in first. After it was all over, Neal and Sara made their way down to toward the kiss and cry area to congratulate Michael and Katarina and console Dani and Brian. Not that they needed much consoling; it seemed that fourth was much better than they’d been expecting for their first Olympics, and they were thrilled at the idea of going out with Neal and Sara and the gold medalist team to celebrate.

“Seriously, I wanted to be you for so long,” Neal overheard Dani telling Sara as they were waiting for Michael and Katarina to finish up with the press so they could catch a cab down into Salzburg. “I used to watch you, back when I was in juniors and you and Neal had just started competing nationally.”

“Thanks,” Sara said, with a lot more grace than Neal ever had when faced with overly enthusiastic younger skaters.

“I was crushed about your injury,” Dani said. “I couldn’t believe it when they said you couldn’t skate anymore. I don’t know what I’d do if that happened to me.”

Neal, in the middle of texting Peter to see if he could join them, paused to listen and, if necessary, rescue Sara from the conversation. But Sara being Sara, she didn’t require any rescuing. “I thought that, too,” she said, “but then when it did happen to me - well, I couldn’t sit around and cry about it for the rest of my life, you know? I had to do something. And I love doing choreography for other people.”

“I’d heard that’s what you’re doing now,” Dani said. “Hey, do you think you could do some work for Brian and me next season? We played it pretty safe this year, but I think we’d like something a little more, you know, fun, for next time.”

“Sure,” Sara said. She sounded genuinely pleased, and Neal turned back to his phone.

Peter couldn’t join them directly, since he was already out with Diana’s team after their own victory, but he did give Neal the name of the bar they’d decided to occupy. Neal deftly managed to steer his own group in that direction by giving the name of the bar to the cab driver, earning himself a knowing look from Sara.

“What?” Neal said, strapping himself into the cab beside her. “All bars have booze, what else do we want?”

The bar was hopping by the time they got there. Not only was the American women’s hockey team there, so was most of the men’s team, and it seemed that Michael and Katarina had texted their own teammates, so at least half the German figure skating team was there as well. It took Neal nearly ten minutes to find Peter in the crush of bodies, but he finally managed to locate him at a table in the back, sitting with - who else? - Diana and Jones.

“Hey, stranger,” Peter said, standing up to give Neal a hug. He smelled like beer, but that wasn’t surprising; he’d texted that they’d been there a while already.

“Hey,” Neal said, and had to quash the urge to kiss him. He didn’t think there was any press nearby, but God only knew who had a camera phone. “Congrats, Diana,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said, raising her mostly empty glass.

“What are you drinking?” Neal asked, pulling out his wallet. “I’ll buy you guys a round.”

“In a minute,” Peter said, grabbing him by the hand. Neal managed to hand his credit card to Jones and say, “Vodka and diet Coke for me, thanks!” right before Peter hauled him around the corner and into a deserted hallway to push him against the wall and kiss him.

Drunk Peter was _handsy_. And hot, even smelling like beer. Neal let himself fall into it, keeping one ear out; there was a door at the other end of the hallway. Peter didn’t seem to care at the moment who might hear, but that didn’t meant he wouldn’t once he was sober.

No one interrupted them, but eventually Neal had to gently break the kiss and push Peter away. “I missed you,” Peter said, nuzzling Neal’s temple.

“I missed you, too,” Neal said, stifling a laugh. “But we can’t make out in a hallway all evening.”

“Why not?” Peter asked - no, Peter _whined_.

“Because someone will come looking for us,” Neal said, and started to pull away.

Peter reeled him back in. “Let them,” he whispered, and kissed Neal again.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Neal said, stroking a hand through Peter’s hair, “but we both have teammates to celebrate with tonight, remember? But if you’re good,” he added, when Peter looked disappointed, “maybe we can go back to my room later. My roommate’s married to his dance partner, so he’s never there.”

“Hmm,” Peter said, looking as though he’d rather make out with Neal now. But he let Neal lead him back to the table and even ordered a water to go with his next beer.

Neal spent the evening going back and forth between the hockey players at one end of the bar and the figure skaters at the other. Once the crowd thinned out a bit, Sara prodded their group into moving closer to Peter and Diana’s; there was a round of introductions, and Neal spent the rest of the night sitting next to Peter, Peter’s arm draped across his shoulders. It wasn’t anything out of line, certainly no more than Neal saw some of the hockey players doing with each other. But by the end of the night, he was pretty sure there wasn’t a single person in either group who hadn’t picked up on the subtext.

Peter was more or less sober by the time he and Neal said their goodnights and caught a cab up to the Village. They were both quiet during the ride. Neal was tired and starting to think about his short program, now less than two days away, but he was aware of Peter’s hand resting on top of his in the dark. “Everything okay?” he asked at last.

“Yeah,” Peter said, a strange note in his voice. “Everything’s okay. I always thought that if people found out, it wouldn’t be, you know? But I think most of my team knows now, and it’s still okay. No one refused to stand next to me while changing for practice today, no one flinched at using the showers with me.”

“That’s good,” Neal said, and turned his hand over beneath Peter’s so he could lace their fingers together. He didn’t say that having it be an open secret was different from being out, that once you were out and everyone knew, people had license to say things they wouldn’t otherwise. Sometimes those things were good; gay athletes had a lot of support now that they hadn’t had ten years ago. But sometimes those things were intrusive or wrong or just downright mean. “You still want to come back to my place with me?”

Peter looked at him. “If you want. Sorry about earlier,” he added, quietly. “I was drunk and I’d been thinking about you all day.”

“Hey, don’t apologize,” Neal said, sweeping his thumb over the back of Peter’s hand. “And yes, I want.”

The twin beds in the apartments in Olympic Village had not been made to be shared by two grown men, and they really hadn’t been made for two grown men to try and have any kind of athletic sex in them. At some point after his competition was over, Neal thought, he was going to rent a hotel room in Salzburg and make sure he and Peter had a nice, uninterrupted stretch of time to roll around in a king sized bed together. But for now they settled for squishing themselves into Neal’s bed, Peter half on top of him. They made out for a while, increasingly hot and messy, until they were thrusting their hips together, and then Neal reached for a bottle of lotion on his bedside table.

“You’re in charge of making sure we don’t fall off,” Neal told Peter, and took both of them in hand.

They were both turned on and hard, but they were also both _tired_ , and so it took a little longer than Neal thought it would have otherwise. That was okay, though; it let him learn more about Peter, about what he liked. A little twist of the wrist on the upward stroke, he discovered, was the way to drive him crazy. Peter, meanwhile, made the discovery that Neal’s neck was a serious hotspot for him. “No marks,” Neal had to tell him, regretfully. “I have to be on TV in two days.”

Peter came first, going still and almost silent over him, and watching him, hearing him breathe out, “ _Neal_ ,” pushed Neal over the edge. His vision whited out at the edges and he clutched Peter’s shoulders, shaking through it.

Afterward, they lay together for a few minutes, but between the come drying on their stomachs and the way-too-small bed, it really wasn’t comfortable. Eventually Neal prodded Peter into getting up and showering.

“You want to stay over?” Neal asked as they were toweling off.

Peter sighed. “Yes, but I’d better not. We have two games in two days starting tomorrow, our last group game, and then an elimination round. I need to be fresh for it.”

“When’s your game on Saturday?” Neal asked, suddenly worried that Peter wouldn’t be able to come to his short program - not that it would be the end of the world, but he’d started to count on having Peter there, to cheer him on.

“In the afternoon,” Peter said. “We should be done by six.”

Neal relaxed. “The short program starts at six, and I’m not up until probably closer to eight. Will you come?”

“Of course,” Peter said, and kissed him. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

Neal’s practice the next day conflicted with Peter’s game, so he had to settle for catching the tail end of it on TV. Not that there was much to watch; they handily beat Latvia, and the commentators all agreed that the U.S. was in a great position going into the elimination round. But their first game was against the Czech Republic, and they weren’t going to go down without a fight.

Neal would have liked to watch that one, too, but he needed to be in a state of Zen-like calm for the short program, and watching Peter play hockey, he’d learned, was not the way to achieve that. Peter had understood, but Neal still felt like a bad boyfriend for going on his usual pre-competition walk with Sara around the Village instead of at least watching it on TV. They’d started doing that back when they were still skating together; some skaters napped, but both of them were too high strung to even think about sleeping. Sara took his arm in hers and forced him to walk slowly, and Neal concentrated on breathing and centering himself, grounding himself in the moment and not thinking ahead.

At six o’clock, just as the lower-ranked skaters would be taking the ice for their warm-ups, they met Mozzie back at the apartment. Neal did some stretching and some yoga, and then they left, Moz carrying the bag with his costume, Neal carrying his skates. He listened to his iPod on the ride up to the rink, and Sara and Moz both knew to leave him be.

The arena was packed with people, every seat sold out, but the skaters had a completely separate entrance, so Neal didn’t have to deal with any of the chaos. There were monitors in the waiting area showing the performances of the skaters going now, but Neal ignored them. Unless something very strange happened, he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone who wasn’t in the last two groups of six.

When the second to last group took the ice for their warm-up, he took his things from Moz and Sara and went into the dressing area to change. There were other skaters from his group changing at the same time; some them of he knew better than others, but the most anyone got from him right then was a nod. He changed into his costume and then slipped his earbuds back into his ears, pulling up the music for his short program on his iPod. He sat on a bench in the locker room and closed his eyes, visualizing the program the way Moz had taught him.

He still hadn’t decided whether or not to go for the quad. He’d landed one or two in practice since recovering from his cold, but not enough to be consistent. Moz was telling him to drop it. Sara wasn’t weighing in. He tried to imagine what Peter would have to say if he were there. He thought about texting him, but then he remembered he’d given his phone to Sara a couple hours earlier to keep for him until after his performance was over.

 _Skate the best you can_ , Peter said in his ear. _Whether that means doing the quad or not doing the quad, just skate the best you can._

“Caffrey,” someone said, and Neal opened his eyes. “Warm-up time.”

He was second to skate after the six-minute warm-up, exactly where he wanted to be. He stood with Moz and Sara just outside the kiss and cry, watching the Russian skater before him.

He fell on his quad. “There’ve only been three landed so far tonight,” Moz said.

Neal was so far inside his own head that it took a moment or two for him to register what Moz had said. “I’m doing the flip instead,” Neal said, shortly.

Moz looked at him. “Good,” he said, and that was all. Other people got pep talks from their coaches before going out, but that had never been his and Moz’s way. Neal knew that he trusted him to do what needed to be done.

The scores on the board when Neal took the ice were high but beatable. Four other skaters would come after him, four really good skaters, all of whom had consistently beat him in competition in the last three years. If any of them landed a quad, he probably wasn’t going to beat them tonight. But as long as he landed in the top five, he’d have a serious shot at medaling.

The trick to skating a good program, Neal knew, was to stay focused without thinking too hard. His body and his muscles knew what to do, and as long as he trusted in his training, he would be fine. He let the energy of the crowd buoy him up along with his music, Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” It carried him through his triple-triple combination, through the triple flip that should have been a quad, through the tricky footwork sequence that never failed to be a crowd pleaser, through his triple axel, and right into the very last spin. Then the music ended and the crowd was roaring and quad be damned, Neal knew he’d just skated the best short program of his life.

Sara knew it, too, and she was waiting for him when he came off the ice. She jumped at him, hugging him hard. “You were so damn good out there,” she said, voice cracking.

“Never would’ve gotten here if not for you,” he said, tucking his face into her shoulder briefly to hide it from the camera that was right in his face.

Moz was next. He wasn’t a hugger, but he did smile. “That was good work,” he said, and Neal grinned, just as happy as he would have been with the most effusive praise.

Neal wondered how many times in his life he’d sat in the kiss and cry, Moz on one side and Sara on the other, as they waited for scores to go up. He’d done it at least a hundred times, probably, but it never got any easier. All the nerves he didn’t let himself feel before his performance he let himself feel here, where he could hold Sara’s hand, just like he had back when the scores had been for both of them together.

“It’s going to be huge,” Sara said, and before Moz even had time to tell her to bite her tongue, the score went up.

It was. Over ninety-two points, close to ninety-three, five points higher than his personal best and enough to put him into the lead by a comfortable margin. The skaters after him all had quads planned, and he might end up in fifth, but he wasn’t going to end up any lower than that. That would put him in a good position going into the freeskate.

“Oh my God,” he said as Sara hugged him again. He took a deep breath, then stood on wobbly legs to wave to the crowd one last time. All he really wanted was to go find Peter, but that would mean braving the pack of press waiting for him in the hallway.

He decided sitting for a couple more minutes was probably a good idea, so after they left the kiss and cry they went to the skaters’ section and found three empty seats where they could sit and watch the next skater. He was a Canadian guy Neal had been skating against and privately loathing for years now; his spins were boring and he had the charisma of dish soap, but he did have a quad.

Not tonight, though. Tonight he tripled it, and Neal took a deep breath, sitting back, letting himself start to relax. “Hey, can I have my phone?” he asked, turning to Sara.

“Oh sure,” she said, and dug it out of her bag. “It went off a couple times with text messages.”

Neal glanced at it while waiting for the next skater’s score to go up. There were four text messages. The first one was from Peter, sent hours ago now, probably during an intermission in his own game. _I know you probably won’t get this until after, but I hope your program goes as well as this game._ Neal grinned and thumbed to the next one.

It was from a number Neal didn’t recognize, sent maybe twenty minutes later. _Neal, it’s Diana. Call me when you get this._ Ten minutes after that, there was another text from a different number: _Neal, it’s Jones. Call me._ And then, finally, a fourth text, sent about an hour ago from Diana: _I just realized you’re skating tonight. When you’re done, call me. Don’t believe what they’re saying on TV, Peter is going to be FINE._

Neal felt the blood drain out of his face.

“Something happened,” he said numbly. The score for the Canadian skater was going up, but Neal ignored it. “Something happened during Peter’s game.”

“What?” Sara said.

“I have to find out what happened,” Neal said. He turned on the browser on his phone but of _course_ it just spun and spun and spun. Probably everyone in the arena was using their smartphone right now. He stood up, leaving everything behind - his jacket, his skates - and stumbled down toward the hallway. There had been TV’s in the waiting area. They’d been showing the skating, but maybe they’d have news about other sports scrolling by underneath.

“Neal, wait,” Sara said. He could hear her and Moz scrambling, grabbing his things, and he knew he should just stop and call Diana, but he’d never be able to hear her inside the rink.

He shoved the door to the hallway open and froze as flashbulbs went off and three microphones were thrust in his face. He recoiled, stepping right back into Sara, who was behind him.

_“Neal, how do you feel sitting in first place right now?”_

_“You didn’t try a quad tonight. Do you think you have a shot at gold without one?”_

_“Are you happy with your performance tonight?”_

_“It’s well known that you and Peter Burke are friends. Do you have any comment on his injury?”_

“Guys, back off,” Sara said. She grabbed Neal’s hand and bulldozed her way through the reporters till they reached a restricted area. She waited until Moz got through and then she shut the door on the reporters. "Call Diana.”

His hands were shaking, but he managed to get to Diana's number. It rang three times; he was starting to think no one would answer when she picked up. "Neal?"

"Diana, what the hell happened?" 

"Listen to me," Diana said. "Peter's going to be okay. I didn't want you to see a replay of it and panic. _Peter’s going to be okay._ He’s already insisting he’ll be back in time for the gold medal game.”

" _Diana_. What. Happened?"

"He took a hard hit and cracked a rib or two. Hit his head, too, but the doctors don’t seem to think it’s serious. I saw him a few minutes ago and he made me look up how your program went. Congrats, by the way."

"Thanks," Neal said automatically. The program seemed like a strange and distant dream now. He took a deep breath. “Where are you guys?"

"They took him to the hospital down in Salzburg. But I don’t think they’re going to keep him here.”

"I can be there in . . . it's going to take me a while," Neal realized.

"Don't," Diana said. "By the time you get here, we’ll be ready to leave. Stay, do what you need to do - that's what Peter would want if you asked him, I'm sure. I'll text you when we're on our way back to the village, and you can meet us at his place when you're done, all right?"

Neal swallowed. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. We’ll see you soon, all right?”

“Right,” Neal said. He took a deep breath. “Will you tell him -”

“No,” Diana said flatly, before he could even finish the sentence. “Tell him yourself.” She disconnected.

“What happened?” Moz demanded the minute he was off the phone.

“Two cracked ribs and possibly a concussion,” Neal said. “But he’s okay. Or he will be. Diana said not to come down there, I’m supposed to meet them at Peter’s place later.” He slipped his phone back in his pocket.

“You want to go now?” Sara asked.

He did. He really, really did. But he also wanted to know the current standings, and Peter wouldn’t be back for an hour or more. “They’re taking care of him. Let’s go back out. I want to know where I stand.”

“Are you ready for all that?” Sara asked, nodding toward the door.

The press. _God_. “Yeah,” Neal said.

They were waiting for him when he came out, but at least he was ready this time. He waited through the immediate round of questions and said, “I’m very pleased with how I did tonight. I think I have a really solid shot at the podium, even without a quad. I’ve always believed skating was more than just jumping. As for Peter Burke - he’s a good friend of mine, and I only just learned of his injury. I can’t really comment anymore than that.”

“Okay, that’s it, you pack of hyenas,” Moz said, with his usual media aplomb, and he and Sara ushered Neal through the crowd and back to the arena.

They’d missed two skaters, both of whom had scored higher than Neal. He was sitting in third place, would probably be in fourth by the end of the night. But that was okay. Fourth was within striking distance of the podium, and that was all he’d wanted.

“I’m going to call us a cab,” Sara said, fishing Neal’s phone out of his pocket. She went to find a quieter place to call, and Neal tried to relax enough to enjoy watching the final skater.

The adrenaline spike Neal had gotten when he’d looked at his phone and realized something was wrong had long worn off by the time he and Moz climbed in the back of a taxi outsider the skaters’ entrance. Neal was exhausted; Moz had to shake him awake when the cab pulled up at the drop-off point outside the Village.

His phone buzzed as they were showing their credentials to be allowed inside. He glanced at it. _On our way back_ , Diana had written. _Be there in 30._

“Everything okay?” Moz asked.

“Yeah, I guess,” Neal said. He shook his head. “I’m going back to my place to pack a bag. I think I’ll stay with Peter tonight, if he’ll let me.”

“You need to make sure you get enough sleep,” Moz said sharply.

“Yeah, okay.”

“No, listen to me, Neal.” Moz stopped in the middle of the street and grabbed Neal’s arm. “I’m not telling you not to care that Peter got hurt. But you have the freeskate tomorrow night. You’re in fourth place, and if you throw that away - Neal, you’ve worked too hard. You’re within striking distance of an Olympic medal, maybe even of gold. Do you get that?”

“I do get that,” he said, testily. “I won’t throw that away, Moz, I promise.”

“Good,” Moz said. “So I don’t care where you do it, but you need to get good sleep tonight.”

Neal nodded. “I will.”

“You want me to come with you?”

Neal blinked and realized they were at the intersection where he and Moz would usually part ways. “No, I’m okay, thanks.”

Moz nodded, but he didn’t move. Neal waited him out, wondering what last minute piece of advice Moz would have for him. “You did good tonight,” Moz said at last. “And you’re going to be great tomorrow. I’m proud of you.”

Neal blinked. Then blinked again, because there was inexplicable moisture in his eyes. “Thanks, Moz.”

Moz nodded at him once, turned, and walked away.

It wasn’t far to Neal’s apartment, which was, as usual, empty. He threw a few things in a bag and then grabbed some food out of his refrigerator, too, since he wasn’t up to living off of protein shakes between now and his freeskate. He was looking around to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything when someone knocked at the door.

It was Michael, grinning broadly. “Did Moz call you?” Neal demanded.

Michael’s grin faltered a little. “No, he didn’t. I came because you skated well and I wanted to say so. You disappeared so fast I couldn’t tell you earlier. Why would Moz call me?”

Neal slumped a little, leaning against the doorjamb. “Sorry. Peter got hurt tonight in his game. I thought Moz called you to make sure I made decent life choices.”

Michael shook his head. “No, but I can do that if you need me to. Is Peter okay?”

“If you consider cracked ribs and a possible concussion ‘okay’,” Neal said with a sigh. “I’m not really sure what happened. Diana told me not to watch the footage, because it makes it look worse than it is. I was actually about to head over to his place.”

“I will come with you,” Michael said, and reached out to snag Neal’s duffel bag from him.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Neal said, more sharply than he’d intended.

Michael was unphased. “No, but you could use a friend. Is that right?”

Neal nodded. “Thanks,” he said, a little ashamed of himself. “Sorry for the crankiness. It’s just been one hell of a night.”

“I understand,” Michael said, and slung the bag over his shoulder as they took the stairs down. “But you skated very, very well.”

“I didn’t do the quad.”

Michael waved this away. “I watched men fall on the quad all night long. I was glad not to watch you fall on it, too.”

“Thanks, man,” Neal said wryly.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Neal said. “And I’m glad that I chose not to do it, too. I wanted to skate a clean program and I did.”

The walk to Peter’s place was a short one. They got to there just in time to see a whole pack of hockey players leaving. A couple of them Neal recognized from the night before. “Hey, Caffrey,” one of them - not Jones - said amiably.

“Hey,” Neal replied. Michael raised an eyebrow at him and Neal shrugged. “Peter’s team knows.”

“That . . . sounds like a story,” Michael said, eyebrows raised. “Well, I will leave you now. But if you need anything, or if Peter does -”

“I’ll let you know,” Neal said. “Thanks, Michael.”

Diana let him in when he knocked. “Hey, Neal.”

“Hey. How’s he doing?”

“I’m fine!” Peter’s voice said from the bedroom.

Diana rolled her eyes. “He’s in pain and he’s pissed. He’s all yours if you want him.”

“Thanks,” Neal said dryly.

“I can hear both of you!” 

Neal shook his head and went in to see him. Peter was more sitting than lying on the bed, propped up on pillows. He looked pale, tired, and cranky, but Neal wasn’t sure he’d ever been more glad to see anyone. “Hey,” he said, dropping his bag at the foot of the bed and seating himself on its edge. “How’re you doing?”

Peter shrugged, then winced. “A cracked rib - maybe two - and a bump on the head, not even a real concussion. It’s nothing I haven’t had before. Nothing I haven’t played through before, either. But enough of that - I heard you did great tonight.”

Neal shrugged. “Fourth place going into the freeskate doesn’t suck.”

“That’s awesome.” Peter held an arm out, only wincing a little. “Come here.” Neal settled himself very carefully along Peter’s side, careful not to put too much weight on his torso. “I was so happy for you when Diana told me how you’d done. Did you do the quad?”

“Nope,” Neal said. “But neither did most other people. A bunch of them tried and fell. I skated a clean program.”

“That’s great. I’m sorry I missed it, but I can’t wait to watch you tomorrow night.”

Neal shook his head. “Missing my short program is the least of your worries.”

“Actually, I think it might’ve been what I was most pissed about,” Peter said. “This, what happened to me tonight? It’ll keep me out for a game or two, but I’ll be back in time to play for the gold, you’ll see. It’s not all that unusual.”

Neal lifted his head to look at him. “You keep saying things like that. It doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Sorry.” Peter rested his head against Neal’s and closed his eyes. “They gave me some stuff to help me sleep, so I might not last much longer. I saw you brought a bag. Are you staying?”

“If there’s room,” Neal said. “Moz made sure to tell me I had to get decent sleep tonight.”

“He’s right,” Peter said. “We might have to wait until Jones gets back - he had to do my usual press rounds after the game. But if he has a place to stay, maybe you could take his bed.”

“Sure,” Neal said, then laughed. “Twin beds. It’ll be like _I Love Lucy_.”

“Hey boss,” Diana said, leaning in. “Sorry, couldn’t help overhearing. I actually don’t have a roommate - I’ll call Jones and tell him to meet me at my place.”

“No roommate?” Neal said. “How’d you swing that?”

“We have an odd number of people on the team,” Diana said. She came into the room and started rifling through Jones’s drawers, tossing sweatpants into a duffel bag she unearthed from the closet. “Someone got hurt at the last minute and they didn’t replace her. I won the rock-paper-scissors tournament for the single room.”

“Lucky you,” Neal said.

“No,” Diana replied with a smirk. “In this case, lucky _you_. You need anything, Peter?”

“Nah, I’m okay.”

“Okay. Jones threatened the rest of the guys with their lives if they woke you up when they got in, so hopefully you’ll both get some decent sleep. Have a good night.”

The one upside to cheap IKEA furniture was that it was easy to move. Neal shoved the second bed over so that it was right up against Peter’s and pushed the mattress to the edge. If either of them rolled over too far in the middle of the night, they might end up falling through the crack, but the risk was worth it, Neal thought. “Do you need anything?” he asked. “Painkillers or water or to use the bathroom?”

“I should probably use the bathroom,” Peter said with a grimace. “Help me up?”

Neal gave him a shoulder to lean on and helped him up. Once he was up he was fine, though he moved stiffly as he shuffled to the bathroom. Neal used the opportunity to put the food he’d brought in the fridge and change into his pajamas. He got them both glasses of water and set them on the nightstand.

“Is there anything worse than cracked ribs?” Peter asked, lowering himself down to the mattress with a barely-stifled groan.

“A severe concussion?” Neal suggested. “Which I hear you were lucky to not end up with.”

“Yeah, okay, true,” Peter said with a sigh, as Neal helped him get the covers spread up over him. “I’m really okay, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Neal said, though in this case, he thought _it could have been worse_ was not as comforting as it might have been. After all, this wasn’t a one-time thing; Peter hadn’t been in a fluke car accident. He was a hockey player, and hockey players got injured.

He couldn’t think about any of it now, not if he wanted to sleep. He climbed into the other bed and turned off the light, then reached over and took Peter’s hand in his. “You’ll wake me if you need something?”

“I will,” Peter said. Neal thought he was probably lying, but he guessed there wasn’t much he could do about it even if he was. For a moment, he wondered if it was selfish for him to be here, when maybe it would’ve been better for Peter to have Jones staying with him. But Peter seemed happy to have him there, and Neal wasn’t sure he would have slept well without being able to reach across and touch Peter whenever he wanted. “Good night,” Peter said, squeezing Neal’s hand in the dark.

“Good night,” Neal said, squeezing back, and slept.


	3. Chapter 3

Any serious hockey player knew what it was like to play through an injury. Peter knew guys who’d played with sprained or even broken fingers, bruised ribs, cracked ribs, even a cracked sternum. He knew guys who’d played with concussions, too, though _that_ was just stupid. He could have played through his current injury, but the coach - and the doctors - had been adamant that he sit out at least the next game and possibly the next two. But Peter was determined that he would be fine by the semifinals. He only knew what it was like to play for bronze, and that had sucked. He wanted to know what it was like to play for gold.

“Assuming we get there,” Jones replied when Peter said as much the next morning as they were reviewing tape of the game the night before.

“We will,” Peter said. He was feeling stiff after lying in one position for too long overnight, but otherwise he was in a remarkably good mood. Watching game tape with Jones while Neal did yoga on the floor nearby might’ve been absurdly domestic, but Peter was finding he was more eager to be domesticated than he’d thought. Especially if being domesticated meant he got to watch Neal’s ass in yoga pants as he moved through a series of increasingly painful-looking positions.

The only problem, of course, was that the game tape included footage of him being hit. Peter resisted the urge to send Neal to the kitchen to get a glass of water as it approached; if Neal couldn’t handle watching it while Peter sat within arm’s length, then they might have a serious issue on their hands. Not that it was easy to watch, even for him. He winced as he got slammed down onto the ice and the combined momentum of himself and the Czech skater who’d checked him carried them first into the goal net and then into the boards.

“It looks worse from this angle than it felt at the time,” Peter said, contemplatively. He glanced at Neal, who’d stopped his yoga in favor of staring at the TV.

“It was a doozy, definitely,” Jones agreed. “But I’ve seen worse. Remember when Keggers got injured last season? That was ugly. Or that time I got all sliced up my rookie year. At least this didn’t involve any blood.”

“Nice sport you guys play,” Neal said, and stood up and went into the kitchen.

Jones glanced up then. “Oh, oops.”

“ _Thank_ you, Jones,” Peter said, with heartfelt sarcasm, and levered himself up to go after Neal.

Neal was standing at the kitchen sink, drinking a glass of water. “Sorry about that,” Peter said.

Neal shook his head. “It’s part of it. Whether I like it or not.”

Peter put his arms around him from behind, hooking his chin over Neal’s shoulder, and Neal tilted his head back to rest against Peter. Peter glanced into the living room and saw that Jones had paused the tape and vacated. He turned Neal around and kissed him. “I like that you worry about me,” Peter said.

“Well, good, because I’m not likely to stop.” Neal sighed. “I should go. I need to start getting ready for tonight, mentally, I mean. You really don’t have to come if you don’t want to - it won’t be comfortable for you, sitting in the stands in the cold -”

“I’ll dress warmly,” Peter said firmly. “I missed your program last night, I’m not missing this one, too.” He cupped Neal’s face in his hands. “You’re going to do great.”

Neal grimaced. “I think my nerves are worse now than they were when I took the ice last night.”

“The yoga didn’t help?”

“Not as much as it usually does. It’s been an intense twenty-four hours.”

Peter sighed. “I know, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Neal shook his head. “I have a pre-competition routine. I just need to follow it. But I’m glad you’re coming. Though if you start to hurt -”

“I’m going to be there, there’s no use arguing.”

Neal took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m thinking about doing the quad tonight. I didn’t last night.” Peter nodded. He still hadn’t seen Neal’s program, but the summary of results he’d made Diana find for him had included that detail. “I just knew, even before I took the ice, that it wasn’t a good idea. But tonight . . . I don’t know. We’ll see.” He leaned in to kiss Peter but pulled away before Peter could really get the kiss he wanted. “June will pick you up at the entrance to the village at 6:30, okay?”

“Sounds great,” Peter said. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Neal said. He pulled away, visibly reluctant. “Bye, Jones!” he called. _Bye, Neal!_ Jones called back from the bedroom. “I’ll see you tonight,” Neal added to Peter.

“We’ll celebrate after,” Peter promised him.

Jones came out once Peter had shut the door behind Neal. “Hey, sorry, I didn’t realize.”

Peter shrugged. “Not your fault. Not his fault either, it’s just - the first game he saw me play was the one against Russia, and then I got injured in this one. I don’t think he likes violence, period, and you have to admit, hockey is a pretty violent game.”

Jones shrugged. “He’ll get used to it.”

“I know,” Peter said, even though he wasn’t entirely sure Neal would. And if he didn’t, then that was kind of a deal-breaker. Peter had a good five to eight years left in the NHL. But maybe it was just that Neal wasn’t used to any of this. It had never been part of his world before, just like figure skating had never been part of Peter’s own, and they were basically trying to start a relationship in a pressure cooker. It wasn’t just Peter getting hurt, it was Peter getting hurt the same night as Neal’s own short program. Once everything was over, Peter thought, Neal would be able to relax.

He spent most of the afternoon obediently resting, or at least trying to; sleep was harder to come by than usual, and he ended up texting with Helena more than actually sleeping. His family had been at the game the night before and his injury had really shaken them up. Not that it was the first time something like that had happened, but usually they watched it on TV, where it wasn’t as brutal as it was in person.

But it seemed Helena, at least, had recovered. _You sure you can’t get me in to watch the skating?_ she wheedled for the third time.

_I think I’m lucky to be getting in,_ Peter typed back. _And no, you can’t have my seat!_

_Fine_ , she wrote, and Peter could just hear the sulky note in her voice. _At least tell Neal good luck for me._

_I won’t see him beforehand_ , he wrote back. _But I’ll tell him congratulations for you afterward._

By the time it was time to get ready, Peter’s ribs were aching, so he took one of the approved painkillers before getting dressed, not that he expected it to do very much.

He’d left his apartment and was on his way to meet June when his phone rang. Peter glanced at it, expecting a last minute appeal from Helena, but to his surprise, it was a Buffalo area code.

“Hello?” he said.

“Pete!” Phil Kramer said. Peter stiffened and paused on the street corner. There was no reason for the Sabres’ owner to be calling him at the Olympics. No _good_ reason anyway. He’d known Kramer was around here somewhere, attending Team USA’s games and offering his opinion on everything to anyone who would listen, but he’d hoped to avoid him.

“Mr. Kramer,” he said carefully. “How are you?”

“I’m doing very well, Pete, thanks,” Kramer said. “And how are you? That hit you took last night looked rough.”

Coming from anyone else, the sympathy dripping from Kramer’s voice would’ve been welcome. As it was, Peter had to refrain from grinding his teeth. “It was a hard one, yeah. But I’m doing well. I’ll probably be back to play in the semi-finals, and in the gold medal game for sure.”

“You sound very confident,” Kramer observed.

“I am, sir. We’ve got a great team.” Peter paused. Time was ticking away, and he didn’t want to keep June waiting. “If you don’t mind me asking, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” He hoped that didn’t sound sarcastic. Kramer liked having his ass kissed, but there were times when Peter couldn’t quite manage it with the required level of sincerity.

“I just wanted to check in with my captain and star player,” Kramer replied amiably. “That looked like a very hard hit indeed, and it’d be such a shame if anything kept you out for the rest of the season.”

_Ah._ “It won’t, sir. I’m being careful.”

“I hope you are,” Kramer said. “I hope you _are_ careful, both on and off the ice.”

The pit of Peter’s stomach went cold. “I don’t take your meaning, sir.”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt. Or for anything to keep you from playing. That’d be such a shame, and you know what happens then - those silly trade rumors start up.”

“I don’t know what else besides injury could keep me from playing,” Peter said, keeping his voice very even. “You know how dedicated to the sport I am, sir.”

“I know you are,” Kramer said, in a conciliatory tone. “I know you are. And you just keep it that way, all right? Just remember that everyone has to make sacrifices to play in the show. I know what kinds of sacrifices you, personally, have made.”

“Everyone makes sacrifices,” Peter said automatically, even while his mind was racing. “Sir, I hate to cut this short, but I need to go.”

“Ah, right,” Kramer said. “The men’s free skate starts soon, doesn’t it? I won’t keep you from that. I’ll speak to you soon, Pete.”

“Yeah, of course,” Peter said, and hung up. Then he stood there, breathing hard as though he’d been running.

Kramer knew.

He hadn't said so, of course. He hadn’t said _anything_ for certain. It’d all been veiled and oblique, which made Peter even more nervous than if Kramer had come right out and told him that he knew about him and Neal. But there was no doubt in Peter’s mind that Kramer knew, and that it was going to mean trouble.

He’d have to deal with that and soon. But not right this moment. Right this moment, he had less than two minutes to meet June. 

Despite his best efforts, June was already waiting for him in a sleek black Town Car when he arrived at the entrance. He slid into the backseat and immediately felt underdressed. He’d worn layers, like he’d promised Neal, and the results were warm but not particularly flattering or fashionable. June, on the other hand, was wearing a coat trimmed with white fur, and held a matching hat and gloves in her lap. “Hello, Peter,” she said, and leaned across so he could kiss her cheek. She paused, frowning at him shrewdly. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, of course,” Peter said, forcing a smile. “I just didn’t want to keep you waiting. I hope I didn’t?”

“Only for about a minute,” she assured him. “How are you feeling?”

“Not bad,” Peter said, buckling himself in. “A little achey, that’s all. I’m mostly just bruised.”

“Hmm,” June mused. “That’s not what Neal led me to believe. Cracked ribs, he said.”

“Probably only one.” Peter shrugged. “It’s hockey.”

“Indeed,” she said. “Well, hopefully your ribs won’t bother you too much this evening. I managed to procure excellent seats for us, but it will be chilly.”

“I’m prepared,” he assured her. “Did you talk to Neal this afternoon?”

She shook her head. “No, but I did speak to Mozzie just a few minutes ago. He said Neal was in ‘Zen-mode.’” She put air-quotes around the words and smiled.

“Good. I was worried he’d be distracted by everything that happened yesterday.”

“So was Moz,” June said. “So was I, to be honest. But fortunately,” she paused and eyed him, “that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

_Fortunately for you_ was the subtext there, Peter sensed. He’d have been offended, except he’d spent the afternoon quietly worrying that Neal wouldn’t be able to get into the right headspace for competing and would lose because of him. That would have broken Peter’s heart, and Moz might have _actually_ killed him. But they both should have known better, Peter thought. Neal was nothing if not a professional.

June’s seats were not the very best in the house, but they were close. They had an excellent view of the ice, and the seats themselves were a lot more comfortable than Peter had expected. Since there was a good three hours of skating left before Neal’s group would even take the ice, that was a good thing.

_Three hours_. Peter managed not to sigh and wondered why he hadn’t just told June he would meet her at the arena. He liked watching Neal skate, but he wasn’t at all sure that enjoyment extended to skaters who weren’t Neal. And being bored gave him far too much opportunity to worry about things he couldn’t do anything about.

Really, he thought, watching absently as one of the lower-ranked skaters stumbled through his program, what was the worst thing Kramer could do to him? He could trade him. But realistically, he probably wouldn’t do that. Buffalo would be furious, and Kramer liked his bottom line as much as any other team owner.

But if he did - well, it would suck. Peter didn’t like the idea of playing for any other team, and he’d have to live away from Neal. Neither of those things was ideal. But he was a good, solid team member, and he didn’t think he have any problem finding a team willing to take him.

Unless Kramer outed him and _then_ traded him.

That was a much worse prospect. No one was out in the NHL, and Peter didn’t delude himself by thinking that was because he was the only gay player out there. The world had changed a lot, but no one wanted to take the risk that maybe it hadn’t changed _that_ much. If Kramer outed him and then traded him, Peter might very well be screwed out of the rest of his NHL career. He liked to think otherwise, but there was no way of knowing for sure.

Peter might have spent the next three hours spinning his wheels anxiously about the possibilities. Fortunately, June kept up a steady stream of conversation. She knew everything about everybody, from the skaters to the coaches to the judges, and she was remarkably knowledgeable about the sport, too. Better yet, she was a bottomless font of information about Neal. Peter was happy to let himself be distracted by her gentle patter and even happier to absorb the information she offered. There was still so much he and Neal didn’t know about each other. Peter suddenly wondered what his parents and Helena had told Neal while they were sitting together during his game the other night.

“So you met him and just thought, ‘This is someone I want to support’?” Peter asked, once June had finished telling Peter about how she and Neal had met. “Without knowing anything about him?”

“I knew he was talented. And I knew that he needed someone to believe in him. That was good enough for me. There’s no virtue in supporting someone who would win anyway,” she pointed out when Peter raised his eyebrows. “But you would know that, wouldn’t you? The Sabres were sitting at the bottom of the Eastern Conference when you signed with them.”

Peter shrugged. “I wish I could say that’s what I was thinking, but truthfully, it wasn’t where I intended to end up. I thought I’d put in a season or two and get traded somewhere better, but then they drafted Jones the next year, and they hired Reese Hughes to coach, and things started to turn around. Before I knew it, they’d given me the C and I couldn’t imagine playing anywhere else.”

June nodded, approvingly. “You have loyalty. I like that about you.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, a little awkwardly.

“I hope you and Neal work out. I know it hasn’t been very long, but I remember what it was like to meet Byron - my late husband. It didn’t take us very long to know.”

Peter hesitated. “It doesn’t bother you that I’m not out?”

She shook her head. “No, because I don’t think you’re truly afraid of being out. If I thought you were paranoid about it, or that you’d publicly deny Neal because of it, then yes, it would bother me. But I can’t see you doing that.”

“I wouldn’t,” Peter said, even as he wondered. What would he do if it came down to choosing between Neal and his NHL career? He really had no idea.

“Smile for the camera, dear,” June said abruptly. Peter glanced up and realized that the Jumbotron, which had been showing replays of the last skater’s jumps, was now focused on him and June. She waved and smiled, and Peter did the same, looking - he thought - incredibly awkward next to June’s easy elegance. He could almost hear the commentators: _And there’s hockey player Peter Burke. Burke was injured in last night’s game against the Czech Republic but is here tonight supporting Neal Caffrey. Caffrey and Burke have been spotted out and about in Buffalo together a few times, and they’ve been diligent about attending each other’s events here in Salzburg._ No one - at least no one in the mainstream sports media - would openly speculate about them on that basis alone, but at some point someone would. If Kramer didn't out him first.

He needed to talk to El, Peter decided. She knew him, she knew Phil Kramer, and she knew PR. She'd be able to help him figure things out.

Once he'd made that decision, he was able to relax a little. The skating got more interesting, too, each group ramping things up until Neal’s group finally took the ice for their warm-up. They were the best skaters, June had informed him, a note of pride in her voice, the top six from the night before. Neal was currently in fourth, which meant he’d be third to skate.

“He told me earlier he was thinking about trying a quad,” Peter said. “Do you think he will?”

June pursed her lips. “He didn’t last night. I don’t know, to be honest. He probably can’t win gold without it, but he could win bronze, maybe even silver, depending on how everyone else does. He knows that we’ll be proud of him no matter what, but for himself, he might decide to try.”

Peter nodded and forced himself to straighten up and pay attention. He watched Neal land two jumps, do a spin, and then skate around the perimeter of the ice, frowning.

“He’s setting up for the quad,” June said, even though Peter couldn’t see him setting up for anything. But sure enough, the next jump he tried was the quad. He landed it cleanly, causing a smattering of applause from the crowd, and June sat back, looking pleased. “I think he’s going to go for it tonight.”

Peter took a deep breath as a flood of nerves suddenly made him queasy. He felt like he was standing in the tunnel at the First Niagara Center, waiting to take the ice before the Stanley Cup Final. But this was almost worse, because he couldn't do anything about the outcome. It was up to Neal.

The first two skaters, one from China and one from Italy, were both good, clearly better than anyone else who’d gone so far, but running commentary from June indicated that neither of them was unbeatable. The Italian skater fell on his quad, and in the replays of one of his other jumps, June pointed out to Peter that it was under-rotated. “And Neal’s component score is almost always higher than that,” she added, looking up at the board. Peter nodded as though he knew what that meant and made a note to learn something about figure skating scoring. It seemed ridiculously complicated compared to hockey.

The Chinese skater had a better night than the Italian guy. He landed his quad in the first thirty seconds of his program to loud applause, and that seemed to give him confidence. But he doubled his second triple axel in the last half of the program where it would have been worth more, and seemed to have to fight to get through his elements after the halfway point. “No stamina,” June said. “But that quad will mean a lot.”

And then it was Neal skating out to the center of the ice. Peter took a deep breath, and June reached over to grip his hand.

He’d seen Neal’s freeskate many times in Buffalo during the couple of weeks they’d shared a rink, but he never got tired of watching it. His short program was set to Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” a beautiful but conservative choice that, Neal had told him once, let him be bolder with his freeskate. And “bold” was definitely the right word for Neal’s long program, which was set to a medley of instrumental bits from a concert Metallica had once played with the San Francisco Symphony. Watching Neal now, in a stadium with every seat filled, was even better than watching him at home in Buffalo. It was also infinitely more nerve wracking.

Most of the skaters did their quad first, to get it out of the way. But Neal’s came a little later in his program, after a triple-triple combination. Peter held his breath, waiting for it, and June gripped his hand so hard Peter was sure he’d have welts from her fingernails.

He landed it, beautifully. Peter managed not to jump to his feet and shout, because apparently that just wasn’t done in figure skating, but he did cheer and clap with the crowd. June hugged him and he hugged her back, grinning so hard his face hurt. “Oh Neal,” she breathed.

After the quad, the rest of the program just _flowed_. There was something so charismatic about Neal on the ice, even in his competition programs, and Peter could feel how much the audience loved him by the end. He didn’t know what the judges would do, but if it’d been up to the crowd, Peter thought, they could’ve just canceled the last three skaters and given Neal his medal right then and there.

“His score should be very good,” June said once Neal had spun to a standstill at center ice, to thunderous applause. “Not only did he land the quad, he didn’t even have to fight for it, so his grade of execution should be excellent. No deductions that I could see. He might have under-rotated that last triple axel, but we'll see - it might not be enough to cost him.”

The screen had switched from playing replays of Neal’s jumps to showing Neal, Moz, and Sara waiting for the results. Neal was smiling and leaning into Sara, who was positively beaming. Even Moz looked happy.

The score finally went up. At just over 175, it seemed big to Peter - but then, not knowing anything about the judging, he had no way of knowing. The crowd was happy, clapping for him, and Neal seemed pleased when he stood to wave to everyone. But Moz was looking less happy now, and when he turned to look at June, she was pursing her lips. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It should have been higher. They’re leaving themselves some room, since the top three haven’t gone yet.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “Can they do that?”

“They shouldn’t. But the judging is subjective, in the end. There are a lot of places where judges can give more or fewer points, and with the top three still to go, they don’t want to lock themselves into giving Neal a medal.”

Peter grimaced. “Give me hockey any day. You hit the puck into the net to score the goal. Whoever does it more often in a game wins. Done.” Not that there weren’t rules and regulations being enforced by the refs, but in the end, it was fairly objective.

June laughed. “It is more straightforward, that is true.” She took a deep breath. “He might win, but we’ll have to see how these three last skaters do.”

“Where are they now?” Peter asked, craning his neck to try and see.

“There’s an area set aside for the skaters to watch. He’s probably there. We’ll go down after the last skater to find him.”

The last three skaters were from Japan, Russia, and Canada. Peter had to admit that they were all very good. The Canadian guy was kind of boring to watch, though, and June said that he was known for getting very high element scores and then losing out on the component score. “He can jump but there’s not much else that’s interesting about his skating,” she said, when Peter looked at her blankly. “But his jumps are consistent and good enough to have gotten him this far.”

Not tonight, though. He landed a quad and even tacked another jump on the end of it, so his technical score was a little higher than Neal’s. But his component score - which Peter was starting to understand had something to do with creativity or artistry or something - was much lower. Even though the Canadian guy had a slight lead from the short program, Neal was still ahead of him in the end, even if his lead could be measured in tenths of points.

“At least the bronze,” June said, gripping Peter’s hand. “We’re assured of that, now.” Peter nodded, wishing he was sitting with Neal. He was glad to be there for June, so that she wasn’t on her own, but he’d have rather been holding Neal’s hand.

The last two skaters were both very good - not boring at all, and Peter would have enjoyed watching them if only he hadn’t been silently hoping for one of them to fall. Neither of them did, though the Russian skater put his hand down after his quad, and the landing to his triple-triple looked strained. June hissed. “That might be silver,” she murmured. And she was right - the judges slotted him right in between Neal and the Canadian skater, with only a hair’s breadth of a difference between the three of them.

Peter didn’t think he breathed through the Japanese skater’s program. He knew Neal would be happy with silver; Neal would be happy to be on the podium at all. But _he_ wanted gold for him, dammit, almost as much as he wanted to win it himself with his team. Neal had earned it.

But so had everyone else here. The Japanese skater skated a perfect program, and with his lead from the short, there was no contest - he finished almost two points ahead of Neal and everyone behind him, and Peter had to admit that it was fair. And silver was excellent, silver was amazing, there weren’t too many people in the world with silver medals from the Olympics, and Peter swallowed whatever disappointment he might have felt to hug June and rush down the stairs toward the ice to get to Neal.

It was a madhouse, skaters and family and friends and fans and press everywhere Peter looked, but June cut a swathe through them all and Peter followed in her wake. By the time they managed to get through, his ribs were aching and he was a little short of breath. But then he saw Neal, grinning broadly and having his picture taken with the other two medalists, and Peter thought his heart would leap right out of his chest. And just like that, two futures opened up before him.

In the first, he followed June up to Neal, let her kiss his cheek and congratulate him, and then shook his hand, gave him a masculine, back-slapping hug. The press would take a picture of them together and run it with a fun headline, and sometime in the next few days he and Neal would finally do the interview and photoshoot El had been bugging him about. That’d give the fans some fodder without giving anyone cause for actual speculation.

That future was . . . it was fine. Good, even. Very safe.

_Fuck_ safe, Peter thought suddenly. His _boyfriend_ had just won an Olympic medal and he wanted to kiss him. And in the second future, he did.

In that moment, he wanted that future so badly he could taste it. It was almost enough to override his sense of self-preservation, and it might have been, had it not been for his conversation with Phil Kramer earlier that evening. Besides, this was Neal's moment, and Peter didn't want to distract from it.

But someday, Peter thought. Neal might very well have another Olympics in him, and Peter hoped he did, too. In four years, he wanted to be able to kiss him in front of everyone, come hell or high water.

He hung back, waiting for the media scrum to disperse a little, which it eventually did to focus in on the Japanese skater who'd won gold. Peter and June were finally able to get through the crowd to reach Neal then. He hugged him, hard, and heard flashbulbs going off around them as the press took photos of them. "I'm so damn proud of you," he said in Neal's ear.

Everything after the results came in was a blur. Later, Neal remembered a thousand flashbulbs going off; he remembered Peter hugging him so hard he almost couldn’t breathe; he remembered being shepherded out onto the ice for the flower ceremony. He didn’t remember anything of the ceremony itself, and he was glad, when he came back to himself later, that it wasn’t the medal ceremony. That would happen the next afternoon, and Neal wanted to remember every second of it.

In the midst of it all, Neal lost track of Peter, but when he caught a glimpse of him again, he was standing with Mozzie, June, Michael, and Sara. Sara was beaming and crying at the same time, and Neal had to swallow against the thick pain of regret that she wasn’t standing with him. It was still sweet to stand here, in a place he’d never a hundred percent believed he’d be someday, but it would have been all the sweeter if it’d been them both up there together.

After the ceremony, he was able to make his way back to them. He hugged Sara first, and pressed his face into her hair. “You did this with me,” he told her.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said.

“No, I mean it, I’m the skater I am today because of you,” he said, and hugged her tighter.

June was next in line. Neal hugged her. “I’m so proud of you, my dear,” she told him. “I always knew you could do it.”

“It’s not gold,” Neal felt he had to point out, as though she didn’t know that.

She tapped him on the cheek. “Hush, you. You know that doesn’t matter to me. All I ever want is for you to skate your best.” Neal smiled and kissed her cheek. The truth was that it didn’t matter much to him, either, that he hadn’t won gold; it would have been amazing, of course, but second was two places higher than he’d ever finished at this level. He’d landed his quad and he had his medal. Gold had been a wonderful dream, but he’d known that it would probably stay just that. But he still had a few skating years left in him. It was possible he’d one-up himself next time.

He and Moz didn’t hug, but Moz did look long and hard at him before speaking. “Good,” he said at last. “Very good.” And then he whipped off his glasses and started polishing them, looking away. Neal wasn’t fooled, but he knew Moz well enough not to push.

Peter hung back, watching him with a soft smile on his face. Only when Moz was done with Neal did he loop an arm around his shoulders, squeezing him lightly. His arm stayed there as Neal accepted a handshake from Michael.

"That was wonderful skating," Michael told him. "Truly the best I've ever seen from you."

"Thanks," Neal said with a smile.

"Shall we go out and celebrate?" Michael asked, glancing around at the group.

Neal hesitated. Part of him wanted to, and part of him didn't. He was elated but he was also _tired_. The last couple of days had been among the most stressful in his life, between his cold, Peter's injury, and his own competition.

Peter seemed to pick up on the hesitation. "How do you feel?" he asked Neal quietly. "Do you want to go out and celebrate or would you rather head back to the village?"

Neal leaned into Peter. "Village, I think. I'll celebrate tomorrow."

Michael looked disappointed, but he nodded, and they all made their way out of the stadium and toward the back entrance. There were two cabs waiting for them there, where no press was allowed. Sara hugged Neal one last time before climbing into the first cab, and Neal waved to June. He’d see them both at the medal ceremony the next day, if not before. Then he climbed in next to Peter, who was already in the back of the second cab with Moz and Michael, and felt himself go suddenly boneless with relief.

Safely within the confines of Olympic Village, Neal took Peter's hand in his. Moz quickly disappeared off toward his own apartment with one last, “Congratulations.” Michael broke away soon enough as well, after giving Neal one last quick, hard hug.

Peter was quiet once they’d left Michael and Moz behind. Neal thought he might just be tired; he had to be hurting, even if he insisted he wasn’t. But something made him think that might not be all that was bothering him.

”You know you don't need to be jealous of Michael," Neal told Peter, as they headed back to Peter's apartment for him to pack an overnight bag. Neal’s roommate had moved out altogether that morning, into a hotel room in Salzburg where he could actually sleep with his wife every night. "We were only ever just friends."

"I know," Peter said, looking and sounding uncomfortable. "It's just - you have history with him. You and I don't have a lot of that yet."

Neal squeezed his hand. "We're making some now.”

Both of them were quiet on the walk from Peter’s apartment to Neal’s. Neal was exhausted, now that the adrenaline had worn off, but he was also, he suddenly realized, starving. "Are you hungry?" he asked Peter once they were back at the apartment.

"I could eat. But you're not going to cook. Sit, relax." Peter pulled Neal in for a kiss and rested his forehead against Neal's own. "You've earned it. I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks," Neal said with a smile. He sat at the breakfast bar and watched Peter cut vegetables and scramble eggs. When the food was done and plated, Peter disappeared briefly into the bedroom and came back with a bottle of champagne. "I bought it just in case," he said when Neal raised his eyebrows. The apartment didn't come with champagne flutes, so Peter poured it into water glasses. "Congratulations," he said, holding up the glass. His eyes were warm as they met Neal's, and they made Neal feel warm, too, right down to his toes.

They ate sitting on the sofa, hip to hip. Neal waited until Peter had finished his food and most of his second glass of champagne before saying anything. Then he nudged Peter's foot with his own and said, "Is everything okay? You've been really quiet. It's not about Michael, is it? Because I told you -"

"No," Peter said quickly, shaking his head. "I know. It’s nothing, really. It’s just . . ." Peter hesitated for a second, then shrugged. "Earlier, when you won - when June and I came and found you - I wanted to kiss you. You'd just won an Olympic medal and I wanted so badly to kiss you, in front of everyone."

"Oh," Neal said, a little surprised. "For what it's worth, it's probably better that you didn't."

Peter grimaced. "I know. It'd have made us the story, instead of your Olympic medal. It'd have been a huge distraction for the rest of the games. But you were amazing, and I wanted to be able to kiss you and tell you so without it being a huge production. But I couldn't have that, so I didn't." Neal took a sip of his own champagne and stayed quiet, waiting for Peter to go on. Peter looked down at his empty plate. "I've never really thought about coming out before. It always seemed like more trouble than it was worth. And now . . ." He shook his head. "I don’t know.”

Neal sighed. “It was a lot of trouble, Peter. And I wasn’t playing hockey.” He could only imagine how much worse it would be for Peter. And Peter himself, Neal thought, really had no idea. He had no idea the things that people would say to him, about him. No one in any of the major sports had done it yet, and for damn good reason.

“The world’s changed. Maybe it’s time.”

“Maybe,” Neal said. “But I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret. If you ever decide to come out, I’ll be with you every step of the way, but don’t do it on impulse.”

Peter reached over and smoothed a lock of Neal’s hair out of his face. Neal closed his eyes, briefly, feeling weighed down by tiredness. “I won’t.”

Neal nodded, opening his eyes again. “I’m glad we didn’t go out tonight,” he said, deciding a change of subject was in order. “Tomorrow night will be better. You guys have the quarter final, don’t you?” Peter nodded. “So we’ll go out and celebrate my win and your team’s win, all at once.”

“I like that idea,” Peter said, leaning into him. “Thank you.”

“Another idea I like,” Neal said, picking Peter’s hand up and pressing a kiss to the backs of his knuckles, “is renting a hotel room down in Salzburg for a couple of days, something with a really big bed.”

Peter chuckled. “That does sound nice. How do you plan to get a hotel room in Salzburg right now?”

“You let me worry about that,” Neal said, because the truth was that he really had no idea. “I’ll figure something out. Or I’ll get June to lean on someone. She has a way of getting what she wants.”

Peter laughed. “I’m sure she does.”

He leaned into Neal, and Neal wrapped his arm around him, pressing a kiss to his temple before draining the last of his champagne. “Come on,” Neal said, setting aside his glass. “I want a hot shower, and I want you to scrub my back.”

“I could be persuaded to do that.”

Neal got to his feet and offered Peter a hand up, which he took with a groan. “How are the ribs?”

“Sore,” Peter admitted. “But a hot shower will help.”

“You know what else might help?”

“What?”

“Endorphins.”

Peter grinned. “Any idea how we might generate some of those?”

“Just a few,” Neal said, returning Peter’s grin as he held open the door to the tiny bathroom. 

They made out for a while in the shower, the steam rising around them, making Neal feel warm and safe. Or maybe it was _Peter_ making him feel that way; Neal wasn’t sure and didn’t care. Neal would’ve been happy with a low key, celebratory handjob, but Peter had other ideas. He knelt down, right on the tile, and took Neal into his mouth. Neal leaned back against the shower wall, knees already going weak, and threaded his fingers into Peter’s hair. He came hard enough that he got dizzy with it, sliding down the shower wall to sit on the floor.

He ended up returning the favor right there, Peter’s cock warm and heavy on his tongue. He didn’t love giving head in the shower; he enjoyed the musky smell of it, and in the shower that was mostly washed away by the water. But he loved hearing Peter groan, loved feeling him tug at his hair, like he couldn’t help himself, loved the way Peter went perfectly still right before he came. 

Neal slept like the dead that night, months and years of pressure finally lifted off his shoulders. When he woke the next morning, Peter was gone from the other half of the bed. He sighed, rolling over, and wondered if Peter had already left. He probably had things he needed to do - check in with the doctors or his team’s coach, or even just meet Jones for coffee. Neal wasn’t the center of his universe, after all, even if the two of them sometimes felt like a world unto themselves.

The door to the apartment opened and shut. Neal heard the faint sounds of someone setting stuff on the counter, and then the door to his own room nudged open.

"Hey, good morning," Peter said, coming in the rest of the way when he saw Neal was awake. He had a cup of coffee in his hand, which he held out to Neal.

"Good morning," Neal said, sitting up and feeling a little silly for thinking Peter had just left altogether. "Thanks," he added, accepting the cup. He breathed it in and then took a sip. "You put cream in this."

"I did," Peter said, seating himself on the edge of the bed with his own cup. "If you can't splurge the day after you win an Olympic medal, then when can you? I've got breakfast for us, too, if you're hungry."

"In a bit," Neal said, settling back against his pillows. "I'm enjoying not having to get up and go to practice. Actually, there's no where I need to be today except Medals Plaza at three o’clock."

"I'm sure there'll be a presser after that. And endorsements are going to come calling.”

"Probably," Neal said, with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. He looked forward to having money of his own to spend and not having to depend on June's charity - on being able to pay back some of June's charity, in fact. The window for making money for pro figure skaters was pretty narrow, but if he played his cards right and invested well, he'd be able to set up a nice nest egg for himself. “What do you have planned for today?”

“I actually have to go down into Salzburg and meet Elizabeth for lunch,” Peter said, apologetically. “But I will definitely be there for your medal ceremony.”

Neal nodded. “Maybe I’ll have lunch with Sara and June, then.”

They had a leisurely morning, the likes of which Neal hadn't known in months. He let Peter bring him breakfast in bed, and then they spent hours making out like teenagers, like they had all the time in the world. Peter was right: things would heat up again soon enough, but for the moment, Neal could enjoy this time with just Peter. Neal was perpetually frustrated by the narrowness of the bed, but it did make them more creative than they might have been otherwise. They ended up having to hurry to shower and dress to get down the mountain in time for Peter to make his appointment with Elizabeth.

Neal had a little time before he’d arranged to meet Sara and June, so he walked Peter to the café where he was meeting Elizabeth. They found her standing outside, checking her phone. She let Peter greet her with a kiss on the cheek, and then, to Neal’s surprise, she turned and hugged him. He’d only met her once before, when she’d been doing PR for the “It Gets Better” campaign and he’d made a video for it, but she’d made an impression on him even then. He’d been outed not long before, and he’d been struggling through it without the help of a publicist; her advice had been invaluable. 

“Congratulations, Neal,” she said, giving him a bright smile. “You skated a really amazing program last night.”

“Thanks,” Neal said, startled but pleased. “It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you, too. Especially under these circumstances,” she added with a wink at Peter. “We should have lunch sometime.”

Peter looked pinched at that - probably at the idea of Neal and Elizabeth hanging out without him. Neal grinned, enjoying his discomfort a little. “We should,” he agreed. “When we get back to Buffalo, if not before. But I’d better go - I’m meeting a couple people myself for lunch. I’ll see you after?” he added to Peter.

“Of course,” Peter said. He didn’t hug him good-bye, but his smile was warm, and it stayed with Neal as he set off down the street toward Sara and June’s hotel. He was in an extraordinarily good mood, but he supposed that was to be expected. Between winning silver the night before and the number of feel-good chemicals floating around his brain at the moment, he supposed it would take something pretty terrible to harsh the buzz he had going.

Sara and June weren’t in the lobby when he arrived at the hotel. Neal texted them, and Sara wrote back that they’d be down in just a minute or two. Neal seated himself in the reception area and poked through the newspapers and magazines, looking for something in English to read. _A minute or two_ probably meant more like ten.

“Neal Caffrey?” someone said.

Neal glanced up, surprised. He almost never got recognized in public. But maybe this was going to be his reality for a while. People might actually want him to sign things on occasion, or even pose for pictures. That’d be a bit of a novelty. He knew it happened to Peter a lot around Buffalo, but Neal rarely got recognized outside his home rink. He supposed it could get old after a while, but in the meantime, he found he didn’t mind the idea.

“Yes?” he said. The guy who’d said his name didn’t _look_ like the average figure skating fan. He was a guy, for one thing, middle-aged and paunchy for another. But maybe he had a grandkid.

“Phil Kramer,” the man said, extending his hand. “I think we have a mutual acquaintance - Peter Burke?”

“Oh,” Neal said, standing to shake his hand. “Yes. I didn’t realize. You’re a friend of Peter’s?”

“You might say that,” Phil said, rocking back on his heels and eyeing Neal. “Though more accurately, I guess you’d say I’m his employer. I own the Buffalo Sabres. I do like to consider myself friends of my players, though, especially my star defenseman.”

Neal blinked. “I see,” he said, a little awkwardly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yes, likewise.” Kramer seated himself in the chair beside Neal’s, as though making himself comfortable. “I hope I’m not keeping you from something?”

“No, I’m just waiting for someone to go to lunch,” Neal said, sitting down as well.

“Good, good. It’s actually a bit of luck, us running into each other like this. You see, Neal,” Kramer said, leaning toward him, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. The press you and Peter have been getting these last few days is interesting. Very interesting.”

“Is it?” Neal replied. He tried not to glance toward the elevators, but he was starting to get a bad feeling about this conversation, and he hoped Sara and June would be ready sooner than later. “I thought it was just normal press. And it seems positive, overall.”

“Oh yes, very positive. But also a bit, well, as I said - _interesting_.” Kramer looked him in the eye and his gaze grew sharp and shrewd. “I would say that it could be easily misinterpreted, except I don’t think I’m misinterpreting anything.”

Neal swallowed. “I don’t -”

“Don’t lie to me, son,” Kramer said, a paternalistic note in his voice that immediately set Neal’s teeth on edge. “You are sleeping with Peter Burke, yes or no?”

Neal gaped wordlessly for a few seconds, but managed to find his voice again quickly enough. “This is - I can’t believe this. This is _completely_ inappropriate. If you want to know something about my relationship with Peter, then you need to ask him, not me.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Kramer said, holding his hands up. “I’m sorry if I offended you. But the thing is, Peter is very noble. Noble, honest, loyal - a regular Boy Scout. And he and I have always gotten along, so I’m sure that if I did ask him, he’d tell me. But I’m hoping not to have to.”

Neal took a deep breath in an attempt to rein himself in. He didn’t like Phil Kramer one bit, but he was Peter’s boss, and Neal didn’t have any reason to think he didn’t have Peter’s best interests at heart. After all, he needed Peter in order for his team to win. “Why’s that?”

Kramer sighed. “Well, you see, son, I’m a little worried about Peter. I’m an open-minded guy, myself, but there are a lot of people out there who aren’t, and there’s more of them in the NHL than in a lot of other places. If it got out that you were seeing Peter, that could hurt him.”

“It’s not going to get out,” Neal said evenly.

“That’s good, that’s good,” Kramer said, and patted Neal’s arm. Neal resisted the urge to jerk away. “I’m relieved to hear that. But love makes people do strange things, as I’m sure you know. It would be real shame if this relationship between the two of you disrupted his career - or got him hurt.”

Neal frowned. “Got him hurt? How?”

Kramer raised his eyebrows, as though he thought Neal was being deliberately dim. “Hockey players are brutal on the ice, and they’ll exploit anything they have on their opponents. Believe me when I say that coming out could be very dangerous for Peter.”

Neal didn’t know what to say to that. Peter had never led him to believe there was physical danger involved in coming out, just that it might not be that great for his career. But Kramer looked very serious indeed, and all Neal could think about was watching Peter get slammed into the boards during the game against Russia. Hockey was a violent game, and he didn’t like the idea that it might get more violent for Peter because of him.

“What do you want?” Neal asked at last, shakily, because he was certain that Kramer wanted something from him.

Kramer reached out and patted Neal on the shoulder. “I just want you to think about this, son. I know you care about Peter. So do I. I think it’s important to think about what’s best for him. Because he won’t, you know.”

The elevator doors opened then, and Sara and June stepped out. Kramer followed Neal’s gaze and stood. “I’d best be going. It was good to meet you, Neal.”

“Um, yeah,” Neal said, unable to bring himself to return the sentiment.

Kramer nodded to Sara and June as he left. “Neal?” June asked, as they came to stand by Neal. He’d be able to get up, he thought. Any moment now. “Who was that? Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine,” Neal said, forcing himself to his feet. He slung his arm around Sara’s shoulders and tried not to lean on her too much. “He was just - just some guy. He wanted an autograph for his granddaughter.”

“Well, isn’t that nice,” June said, though her gaze, when she looked at Neal, was a little too knowing for his comfort. “Shall we go to lunch then? We only have a few hours before your medal ceremony.”

“Yes,” Neal said, and linked his arm through Sara’s in an effort - futile, he suspected - to recapture some of his joy from the morning he’d spent with Peter. “Let’s.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Okay, what’s going on, Peter?” Elizabeth asked, as soon as Neal had left and they’d been shown to their table. “Did you get caught? Does someone have photos?”

Peter sighed. “I might have just asked you to lunch for the pleasure of your company, you know.”

“In Buffalo, sure,” Elizabeth said, waving this away with one manicured hand. “But I know how full your plate is right now, and you know how full mine is, and you’d have never asked to meet if something hadn’t happened. So: what happened?”

Peter glanced around, but their table was far enough from those around them that he thought the ambient noise would cover up their conversation. “Nothing yet. But I need some advice and you were the first person I thought of.” He swallowed, wishing for a glass of water. Elizabeth was watching him, fully attentive, and he knew it’d be best to just jump right in. “I got a call from Phil Kramer yesterday,” he began.

Their waitress appeared again just as Peter was finishing his story. Neither of them had looked at their menus much, but each of them chose something quickly, and she vanished again. Peter watched Elizabeth, trying to gauge her reaction. 

She was quiet for a minute or two, frowning. “It sounds like there was a lot of subtext in that conversation,” she said at last.

“There always is with Kramer. He never comes right out and says what he means. But that means I’ve gotten pretty good at reading between the lines.”

Elizabeth nodded. “That’s true. But are you sure you’re not being - well, a little paranoid? This is something I know you’ve worried about, and you might be particularly worried about it right now.”

“That may be true,” Peter allowed, “but I don’t think it is. He talked about personal sacrifices, El, and he said he knew what kinds of sacrifices I, personally, have made. And at the end, he made a point of saying that he knew the freeskate was that night and he wouldn’t keep me from it.” That was the kicker, Peter thought. If Kramer hadn’t said that, he’d think it was all just generic platitudes that’d taken on extra meaning that Kramer didn’t intend. Everyone in professional sports made sacrifices to get to the top. But Kramer had made a point of mentioning the freeskate, and Peter was certain that was no coincidence.

Elizabeth frowned. “That does sound . . . well. Okay. And you think that Kramer might - what? Use this to trade you? Buffalo would riot.”

Peter shook his head. “It wouldn’t be anything that direct, and it wouldn’t be traceable to Kramer. All he’d have to do is out me via photos on _Deadspin_. My contract is up for renewal next year, so he wouldn’t have to trade me at all, just release me as a free agent and let me fend for myself. That’s the worst case scenario, I think.”

“Even in that case, you’re a well-respected player, and a leader in the Players’ Association,” Elizabeth pointed out. “You’d have a number of other teams lining up to take you.”

“To take the first openly gay player in the NHL? I’m not so sure about that. And I don’t want it to get to that point, anyway. I don’t want to leave Buffalo, for a lot of reasons. But before we go any further.” Peter leaned forward, meeting and holding Elizabeth’s gaze. “Elizabeth, if Phil finds out you’re helping me, it could mean your job.”

Elizabeth gave him a somewhat pitying look. “Peter, do you know how many NHL teams have tried to poach me in the last year? I get at least one job offer every week. I won’t have trouble finding a position if Kramer decides to fire me.”

That made him feel at least marginally better. “Okay then. What do we do?”

Their food arrived before Elizabeth had the chance to answer. She waited until the waiter had left before saying, “Well, as I’ve been telling you for a long time now, it’s really important to control the narrative. If you let Phil Kramer do it, I highly doubt we’ll like what he comes up with. But if _we_ have control of it, then we can spin this in a way where you come out on top.”

Peter frowned. “You’re talking about coming out, aren’t you?”

“It’s the only way you can go on the offensive. Otherwise, you’re just waiting for Kramer to make his move. But if you let me, I can do this in a way that won’t hurt you, and that might do a lot of good. I could make you an icon for fair play, Peter Burke.”

Peter sighed. “Just what I always wanted.”

“There are worse things to be, you know. Like a liar. Which is what you’d be if the news leaked and you denied it.”

Peter grimaced in acknowledgment. Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. Peter forced himself to eat a few bites of his lunch while he tried to assimilate the idea of coming out deliberately. It might be a relief, he thought. He’d be the first, but if it wasn’t a catastrophe, others would surely follow.

But it _might_ be a catastrophe. There was a reason no one else had done it yet.

“I don’t know,” he said at last.

“Peter,” El said, and laid her hand on his. “Do you trust me?”

Peter sighed heavily. “Of course I do, El. That isn’t even the question. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with this. But I’m not - this was never what I wanted.”

“Have you told Neal about it?” El asked. Peter looked away. “You haven’t, have you. You should. The two of you should talk about this. If you come out, it’s going to affect him, too.”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t want him to worry, especially right now. And it might be nothing. It’s probably nothing.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Peter, if Kramer knows, he’s not going to stop at veiled remarks. You know that.”

“He might,” Peter said, even though he knew he sounded more petulant than anything else. “He’s petty enough that it might satisfy him to just hold this over me. He might never do anything with it.”

“Are you willing to take that chance?”

“Maybe,” Peter said. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” Elizabeth sighed, “it’s not what I would recommend. Think about it, all right?”

Peter nodded. He doubted he’d be thinking about much else for the next few days, though a distraction was the very last thing he needed. Kramer probably knew that, too, the bastard.

To his relief, he and Elizabeth talked about other things as they finished their meal, and there wasn’t much time to linger if he wanted to make it to Medals Plaza for Neal’s ceremony on time. They walked out together, and Peter was about to say good-bye and head to the tram stop when Elizabeth stopped him.

“I don’t want to put pressure on you, Peter, but you need to make a decision. If you decide to move ahead, we can start laying groundwork now. There’s already some good material out there from the last few days that’ll be part of the narrative. That picture of Neal looking at you during Diana’s game the other night is gold.”

“My sister guessed about us from that photo,” Peter admitted.

“Right,” El said, putting her hands in her pockets. “So we either need more of that or a whole lot less. If you’re in the closet, you’re in the closet, but if you think you might want to come out, we should start working toward that. We want lots and lots of photos for _Deadspin_ to run.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s a sentence I’ve never heard before.”

She gave him a wry look. “Think about it, all right?”

Peter nodded. “I will.”

She hugged him when they parted ways, and Peter tried to take refuge in her confidence. Even if something happened, they would handle it. She had his back. The worst case scenario was not as bad as he was making it out to be.

He wanted so badly to believe her.

If Peter was honest, he didn’t remember much about his own medal ceremony, four years earlier. They had won bronze, but it had been a bitter win. The medal ceremony should be a celebration, but mostly what Peter remembered was being heartbroken and trying not to show it. He’d mouthed the lines that PR had given to him and tried not to let on how sour the words tasted.

Neal’s medal ceremony was very different. He hadn’t won gold, but that seemed to bother him a lot less than it had bothered Peter. Neal seemed elated, in fact, to be standing on the podium at all, and for an hour or two Peter was almost able to forget his meeting with El. 

He still didn’t know what he ultimately wanted, but he let himself smile as widely as he wanted during Neal’s ceremony. Whatever Kramer intended, Peter wasn’t going to let it ruin this moment, for himself or for Neal. It wasn’t going to stop him from smiling proudly or hugging Neal when the ceremony was over, even if he couldn’t hold onto him for as long as he’d have liked. Neal was beaming from ear to ear, and Peter quickly lost track of how many photos were taken of the two of them in the fifteen or twenty minutes immediately after the ceremony. It didn’t matter, he told himself, trying not to think of the sidebars that would be written to go with them. What mattered was Neal, what mattered was his moment. Everything else could damn well wait its turn.

They went out to eat afterward to celebrate. Peter thought he could hear cellphones snapping pictures of them, but he did his best to ignore it. He knew it would be better to be all in with this, if for no other reason than he’d never half-assed anything in his life and he wasn’t sure he knew how. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. And he also couldn’t bring himself to do anything that might bring down Neal, today of all days, when it should be about him and his victory and nothing else.

Neal was quiet after they finished dinner. Peter wondered if he was too tired to go to Peter’s team’s quarter final against Finland. As an injured player, Peter was watching from the press box, and he’d arranged for Neal to sit with him. Between him and Jones, they’d managed to get tickets for Sara, June, and Mozzie, who would be in the stands near Peter’s own family. But if what Neal wanted to do was go back to the village and rest, Peter wasn’t going to sulk about it.

“No, I’m okay,” Neal said, when Peter asked. He gave him a smile; it looked genuine enough, Peter thought, even if it was a little strained around the edges. “I want to see Jones play.”

“You just seem quiet,” Peter said. A cab pulled up to the curb and the two of them climbed in; the others had gone in June’s car.

Neal shook his head. “A lot on my mind.” He was silent for a couple of minutes, and Peter kept quiet, wondering what was so important that Neal would be thinking about it now, when he should still be riding high on his medal ceremony. “Peter,” he said at last, “do you ever think . . .”

“What?” Peter asked, when Neal didn’t go on.

“What do you think would happen if you came out?”

Peter glanced up toward the cab driver, but he was humming along tunelessly to a song on the radio. His initial interaction with the man hadn’t led him to believe he spoke English well enough to know an idiom like “coming out.” “I don’t know,” Peter said, wondering where this was coming from. “No one’s ever done it before. I’m an established player, so in some ways it’d be easier for me than someone just coming up in the ranks. But that’d also mean more scrutiny. It would be, at the very least, a distraction.”

“A distraction,” Neal pressed, “but maybe also a weakness?”

Peter looked at him, frowning. “That’s a strange word to use. What do you mean?”

“Do you think someone could use it against you on the ice?”

Peter blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t think so. I mean, a lot of crap gets said on the ice already. Some of it isn’t particularly PC.” He knew a couple of players whose favorite insult on the ice was _cocksucker_ ; he’d never loved it, but he tried not to take it personally. They didn’t know, after all, and they used it against lots of players who were as straight as could be. They were just equal opportunity dickheads, that was all.

But if he came out, Peter thought, that sort of thing probably _would_ get worse. In that way, he guessed it would be a weakness. “Maybe,” he said at last. “Impossible to say, though, without actually coming out.”

“Right,” Neal said.

He fell silent, but it was a strange, fraught silence. Peter waited a few seconds, then cleared his throat. “Do you . . . is that something you want us to talk about?”

“ _No_ ,” Neal said, too quickly. Peter looked at him in surprise. “No, no, I don’t think you should. I just - I was just wondering what would happen if something - if someone found out and outed us. A lot of people know now, after all, your whole team. It could happen.”

“It could,” Peter allowed. He frowned. “Did someone say something to you?”

Neal shook his head and looked out the window. “No. I just - I don’t want what happened to me to happen to you.”

_That_ had the ring of truth about it. “I know.”

“No, you can’t know,” Neal said, sounding frustrated. He looked back at Peter, caught and held his gaze. “You can’t know unless it’s happened to you. I had no idea, and I came out in a sport with a history of gay athletes, where no one was going to make veiled comments about _locker room dynamics_. People said things about me - they used names I thought no one got called anymore. There were times I didn’t know what century I was in. I don’t want that for you,” he finished, very quietly. “Especially not because of me.”

“Hey,” Peter said, daring to reach out and grab Neal’s hand. “I know why you feel the way you do, but listen to me. The only way coming out would be worth it to me is if it were because of you. What I wanted more than anything when you won was to be able to kiss you. I couldn’t do that this time. But I thought - in four years, when you win again, I want to be able to.”

He meant every word. He didn’t want to have to hide how proud he was of Neal at the next Olympics. The idea of coming out was suddenly, startlingly _real_ in a way it had never been before, not even that afternoon when he’d talked to Elizabeth. He wasn’t sure he was ready to make a decision yet, but in that moment, he knew which way he was leaning.

Neal looked down at their joined hands. He extracted his gently, then gave Peter a smile that looked more bitter than sweet. “It’s a nice thought.”

The cab pulled up at the athletes’ entrance to the stadium, leaving Peter with no chance to answer and a vague sense of unease. That something had happened to upset Neal, he was certain. But what it might have been, he just didn’t know.

The reporters looked surprised to see Neal when they entered the press box together, but they didn’t let that stop them - he got almost as many questions as Peter before the game started and they were finally able to escape to watch it. Neal looked pleased and surprised by the attention, rather than annoyed, and Peter was reminded that he didn’t live with constant scrutiny and media attention most of the time.

He also probably wasn’t as nervous as Peter was, and the more nervous he was about a game, the less patience Peter generally had for the press. He had nothing but confidence in his team, but the Finns were good and looking to make up for losing out on a medal four years ago. The U.S. was favored to win, but Peter knew that didn’t mean much in hockey. Momentum often counted more than skill, and the Finns had some good momentum going in the tournament.

The game started out with a bang when the U.S. scored in the first five minutes, and then again three minutes later. But they couldn’t maintain the lead; the Finns came out of the gate swinging in the second period, and by the start of the third, it was tied up, three to three.

“You okay?” Neal asked during the second intermission.

“Yeah, I’m fine, why?” Peter asked absently. Neal gave him a look, and Peter realized he was asking him how his ribs were doing. “I’m all right,” Peter said, though now that he was thinking about it he was feeling stiff. There was no way he was leaving before the end of the game.

The third period was a blood-bath, some of the chippiest hockey Peter had ever seen, though probably no rougher than their group game against Russia. He felt Neal flinch beside him as Jones got checked into the boards about three minutes in and had to be helped off the ice by the trainers. 

“He’ll be fine,” Peter said, leaning in to speak to Neal quietly. “He didn’t hit his head. They’ll put some ice on his shoulder, and he’ll be back out there by the end of the period.”

Neal gave him an incredulous look. “You know you’re all crazy, right? You know that no sane person would ever play this game?”

“I’m not sure any sane person would ever play professional sports, period.”

“Point taken,” Neal said. “But at least I don’t have people _trying_ to slam me into the ice. If I fall, I fall, but no one’s trying to help me along.”

“He’ll be fine,” Peter repeated, in an attempt to sound soothing. From the set of Neal’s jaw, he wasn’t sure he succeeded.

It was hard-fought to the end, but Kegs managed to find the back of the net in the last thirty seconds, giving the U.S. the W in regulation time. Peter jumped to his feet, shouting in triumph, and hugged Neal hard. He was aware of flashbulbs going off around them, and not all of them were aimed at the ice where Team U.S.A. had gone over the boards to celebrate. “Come on, let’s go,” he said, and grabbed Neal’s arm to haul him down toward the ice.

The first person they met was Jones, coming out of the trainers’ room. He hadn’t made it back on the ice before the end of the game, but he was smiling hugely, even as he held an ice pack to his shoulder. “Nice work, Jones!” Peter said, grabbing him in a bear hug. Distantly, he felt his ribs twinge, but he had too much adrenaline pumping to care.

“Thanks, man,” Jones said. “Wish we’d had you out there. Might not’ve been such a close call.”

“Next game,” Peter promised, hoping it was true. He’d make an appointment with the trainers before he left tonight to get a check-up the next morning. Tomorrow was a rest day, but they’d face Sweden the day after to see who’d be playing in the gold medal game against the winner of the Canada-Russia semi-final, and he didn’t want to miss that.

Neal ducked away when they got closer to the ice. “I’m going to find the others and meet you after,” he said, pushing Peter forward. “Careful with your ribs!”

“I’ll make sure he is,” Jones said. Neal waved and headed off.

The most exuberant part of the celebration had died down by the time Peter and Jones hit the ice, but everyone was still riding high. Peter let their joy buoy him along. He wasn’t as excited as he would have been had he been allowed to play, but in two more days they’d be facing the Swedes for the chance to play for gold, and that was something to cheer about.

Since he was there, El asked if he wouldn’t mind taking part in the presser after the game, and Peter agreed, somewhat reluctantly. “There are some more photos of you surfacing,” she said to him, quietly. “Mostly from the medal ceremony this afternoon. You’re probably going to get asked about it. Say that you were glad to have Neal with you, that he’s been very supportive of you while you’ve been injured. Okay?”

Peter nodded. To his surprise, the first question he got wasn’t about the photos, but rather about his injury. He said he was feeling good, a little sore and stiff but nothing he couldn’t handle, and he hoped he’d be back to help out against Sweden in two days. The second question, however . . .

“Peter, you had Neal Caffrey as your guest in the press box tonight. Care to comment?”

Peter gave a casual shrug and smiled. “Neal is a good friend, as I’m sure you all know by  
now, and he’s been very supportive of me while I’ve been injured. He’s been looking after me, making sure I don’t overexert myself, and winning an Olympic medal all at the same time. He has impressive multitasking skills, I guess you could say.”

The press laughed, but the reporter wasn’t done yet. “I’d think your teammates, especially the ones from the Sabres, would be the ones looking after you.”

“Oh, they are,” Peter said. “But Neal’s been there, too, and I was glad to have him with me tonight during such a tough game.”

“Nice,” Elizabeth said to him afterward.

“Thanks,” Peter said, a little distractedly. He wanted to make sure he caught one of the trainers before they all left to make his appointment for tomorrow. “Not too much?”

“Just enough,” she assured him. She eyed him for a moment. “You okay?”

Peter nodded, pulling in a deep breath. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” El stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re my favorite, you know that? But don’t tell Jones, he’ll be jealous.”

He and Neal went out with the team that night to celebrate their win and Neal’s medal, dragging Sara and Moz along with them. The next day was a rest day and the last twenty-four hours had been stressful, so Peter let himself cut loose a bit. He drank a little more than he normally would, enough to sling his arm around Neal’s shoulders - nothing he hadn’t done with his teammates, but under the circumstances it felt daring. With a couple of beers in him, he could admit, if only to himself, that the idea of being out and proud was starting to warm on him: being able to finally make a ‘You Can Play’ video and not feel like a hypocrite, being the guy everyone would look back on someday and say, “He did it first.” That idea didn’t suck. But _man_ , even with a buzz on, was it ever scary.

He switched to seltzer about midnight, but he was still pretty buzzed when they caught the tram up the mountain to Olympic Village. Back in the safety of the Village, Peter pulled Neal close. Neal leaned into him and the two of them walked back to Neal’s apartment in companionable silence.

Peter was feeling loose and relaxed, and so it was a shock when Neal stopped him from coming in with him. “I think you should go back to your place tonight,” he said, hand on Peter’s chest.

Peter blinked. “I thought your roommate moved down into Salzburg so he could stay with his wife.”

Neal shrugged, glancing down the street. “He did. I just think we could both use more sleep than we can get shoving the two beds together.”

Peter frowned. “I slept fine last night and the night before. I thought you did, too.”

“I slept fine,” Neal said, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest. “I just - I’d rather we stayed apart tonight, that’s all.”

Peter stared at him. “Why?”

Neal frowned. “Since when do I need a reason?”

“You don’t,” Peter said quickly. “I just thought you liked spending the night together.”

Neal crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m used to my space, Peter. And frankly, you’ve been in it constantly for the last seventy-two hours. I asked you to back off. I’m not sure why that isn’t the end of it.”

Peter couldn’t help it - he jerked backwards as though he’d been punched. He felt like he had been, all the air knocked out of him. It wasn’t so much the words, really, or even the sentiment, as it was the angry, harsh tone. Neal’s eyes had widened, too, as though he was shocked at himself, but that was small consolation. “I’m sorry,” Peter said, his voice going cold. “I didn’t realize I was being such a pain in the ass.”

“Peter, no, that’s not what I meant.”

“Really,” Peter said. “And what did you mean?”

Neal opened his mouth, shut it, and then stood silently, the corners of his mouth turned down unhappily.

Peter gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Got it. Good night, Neal.”

He turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked, hunching his shoulders against a wind that suddenly felt much colder than it had only a few minutes ago. He managed to wait until he was at the corner before he looked back. He had to admit, a small, pathetic part of him hoped that Neal would still be standing there, watching him.

He wasn’t.

Jones was in bed, reading, when Peter came in. “Hey,” he said, eyebrows shooting up. “I didn’t think you’d be back. Ever, actually.”

Peter didn’t answer. He collected his doc kit and went and took a shower, spending a long time under the hot spray. His muscles and ribs were aching, now that he wasn’t actively ignoring them. But his pride hurt a lot more. What the hell had just happened? Had Neal been annoyed with him all along? If so, he was an even more talented actor than he was figure skater. Neal hadn’t given any sign of wanting time apart, and it wasn’t as though Peter wouldn’t have gladly given it to him if he’d asked. They were living under such scrutiny and in such close quarters, it wasn’t like the actual request was unreasonable. But the way Neal had said it, as though Peter’s very existence had been annoying him for days, had stung. Not since that first night when he’d met Michael had Peter felt insecure about Neal’s feelings toward him.

_Michael_. Peter’s stomach went sour. Maybe that was what this was about. Neal had sworn they were just friends, nothing more. But Neal had said a lot of things that Peter was suddenly starting to doubt. His face burned with humiliation and he turned it up into the spray.

To his chagrin, Jones hadn’t gone to sleep by the time Peter managed to drag himself out of the shower. He felt Jones watching him as he checked his phone. There wasn’t so much as a text from Neal.

“Love’s a bitch?” Jones tried, after Peter had tossed his phone onto his bed in lieu of throwing it against the wall.

“You could say that,” Peter said, dropping his towel to pull on his pajamas.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

Jones was silent. Peter took an approved painkiller for his ribs, and then, upon consideration, a melatonin. He had the feeling he’d be lying awake for hours if he didn’t.

“I’m sorry, man,” Jones finally said.

“It’s okay,” Peter said, even though the ache in his chest said it really wasn’t. “I should’ve seen it coming. I’m just glad . . .”

“What?” Jones asked.

“I’m glad I didn’t do anything stupid.” Peter sighed. “I’m going to sleep. Good game tonight, Jones.”

“Thanks, Peter,” Jones said, subdued, and reached over to turn off the light.

Despite the melatonin, Peter didn’t sleep right away. He lay awake, staring into the dark and listening to Jones’s even breathing, and thought about the last three days. He should have seen it coming, he thought, but for the life of him he didn’t know how he could have. Everything Neal had said, everything Neal had done, pointed to him caring about Peter just as much as Peter cared about him. It was so confusing that Peter could almost convince himself he’d overreacted, except that Neal hadn’t been able to explain himself.

Maybe in the morning, Peter thought, when he finally felt himself getting drowsy. Maybe then everything would make sense.

Neal was sitting on the floor when Michael showed up. He didn’t really have a good reason to be sitting on the floor, but it seemed like the thing to do, considering he’d just screwed up the best thing to happen to him in years. And the worst part was that he couldn’t even tell Peter _why_.

“Neal, what happened?” Michael asked, letting himself in. Neal had texted him and then left the door unlocked before deciding to become one with the cheap laminate flooring. “Why are you sitting on the floor?”

Neal let his head fall back against the sofa. “I don’t know. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Just like dating a hockey player, I guess.”

“What?” Michael said, blinking.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Neal explained. “But it wasn’t.”

Michael looked down at him and blinked some more. Then he folded himself up to sit next to Neal, shoulder to shoulder, and said, “Okay, you’re going to have to explain. More details, please.”

Neal let his head fall to rest on Michael’s shoulder as he told him about Kramer approaching him that morning. “I just, I hadn’t thought about it, you know? I mean, I knew that theoretically it could be bad for Peter, and it’s not like it was great for me, but I thought - it hadn’t occurred to me that it could actually be dangerous. And then later, I asked Peter if he ever thought he might, and he said - he said I was the only reason he could imagine coming out, and when I won again in four years he wanted to be able to kiss me.”

“That sounds . . . nice,” Michael said, cautiously. “And they have referees in hockey, right? How bad could it possibly be?”

“I don’t know,” Neal said, “but I have a hard enough time watching his games as it is. If something did happen to Peter because of me, I don’t know if I could deal with it. So then I sort of panicked.”

“Panicked how?” Michael asked, twisting around to frown at him.

Neal put his head in his hands. “I sort of made him think I was sick of him. I snapped at him and told him I was used to my own space and he’d been in it for the last seventy-two hours.”

“That doesn’t sound unreasonable. Or irreparable.”

Neal snorted. “I said it in the meanest way possible. He looked like I’d punched him.” He stared at his hands, braced against his knees, and swallowed. “I could fix it. I could tell him I was tired, and I didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did. He wouldn’t hold it against me. But maybe I shouldn’t.”

Michael groaned. “Neal. Why don’t you just tell Peter what this man, Kramer, said to you?”

Neal shook his head. “What good would that do? He’d just say he doesn’t care, that he can handle it. And maybe he can, but I can’t - I can’t stand the thought of anything happening to him because of me. Kramer’s right, he won’t protect himself, so I have to.”

Michael made a skeptical noise. “And you don’t think that perhaps this Kramer’s motives might be just a little selfish?”

Neal glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

“He is the owner of the team Peter plays on, right? So if Peter comes out, it might be hard for him. It is easier for him if Peter doesn’t.”

“I guess,” Neal said. He frowned. “I didn’t like him. I couldn’t tell you why, but there was something about him I didn’t like.”

“So, you see?” Michael said, nudging Neal with his shoulder. “Why should you trust him? Why shouldn’t you talk to Peter?”

Neal sighed. “If he’ll even talk to me.”

“I’m sure he will, Neal. Don’t be stupid.”

Neal managed a smile. “Easier said than done.”

Michael snorted. “Yes, okay. Do you think you can sleep now?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Neal pushed himself off the floor and onto the sofa. He actually was exhausted, and he still wasn’t sure what he should do. Talk to Peter, if Peter would listen, but he was certain he knew what Peter would say. _I don’t care. I’ll handle it. We’re worth it._ Neal knew that to Peter, it was all true; Neal would have said the same in Peter’s position. But just because Peter was willing to risk his career and his safety, that didn’t mean that Neal should just go along with it.

“I might move down into Salzburg tomorrow,” he said, as he saw Michael to the door.

Michael gave him a look. “You didn’t listen to anything I said, did you?”

“I did,” Neal replied defensively. “I just - I’m just saying. June has a suite. I was supposed to move down there as soon as I finished.”

Michael sighed, rolled his eyes, and ruffled Neal’s hair. “Don’t be stupid,” he reiterated, and left.

Neal slept badly and woke up tired. He made himself breakfast in the kitchenette and ate it alone on the sofa in the living room. He felt a little hungover, though he hadn’t had enough to drink the night before to warrant it. He wondered if it was possible to have an emotional hangover.

There didn’t seem to be much point to getting dressed, but Neal finally forced himself into the shower. Sara texted him shortly after wanting to know if he wanted to come to lunch in Salzburg with her, and he wrote back that that sounded great. He knew he should text Peter, but he still didn’t know what to say to him. Peter would say that he was a grown man and had the right to make his own decisions. But Neal knew things that Peter didn’t, things he hadn’t known himself until Matthew had outed him. It had worked out for him, but the chances were much higher that they might not for Peter. 

The problem with meeting Sara for lunch, Neal realized quickly, was that she knew him far too well. He met her outside the Cathedral, and it took her approximately two minutes to suss out that something was wrong. By the time they’d settled on a place to eat, she’d gotten him to tell her what the problem really was.

“I knew something was going on yesterday,” she said, pointing her finger at him. “So, what, you’ve decided to be all noble and fall on your sword because you know Peter will never break up with you for the sake of his career?”

Neal grimaced. “Something like that.”

“That’s just about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Sara said flatly. Neal sighed. “No, really, Neal. I mean, you were outed by that asshat Keller, and the sky didn’t fall, and that was years ago. The world is different now. Hell, you and Peter could even get married if you wanted to.”

Neal had to smile. It’d been a long time since he’d heard Sara call Matthew an “asshat.” He’d kind of missed it. “I’d like to believe that. I just don’t think Peter has any idea what he’d be in for if he came out, and I think - well, we can try to keep it a secret, but I think a leak is sort of inevitable. I mean, Kramer knew without us telling him, and my sister guessed it. The entire men’s hockey team knows by now, and - oh _hell_ , I bet that’s how Kramer found out.”

“Probably,” Sara agreed. “Which begs the question of why you’re trying to stuff the cat back in the bag once it’s out. Don’t you think you’d be better off letting Peter know you’re on his team, really on his team, and ready to go through it with him? Unless,” she added suddenly, before Neal could say anything, “you don’t actually want that.”

“What?” Neal asked blankly. “Of course I want that.”

“Do you?” Sara replied shrewdly. “Because I think you’re telling yourself that this is about Peter, but if it was really about Peter, you’d have told him yesterday when Kramer approached you. I think this is about _you_.”

“Oh really?” Neal said, frowning at her. “I wasn’t aware you’d gone and gotten a degree in Psychology behind my back.”

“Oh please, I’ve had a degree in Caffrey Studies for years now,” Sara replied, leaning back and smirking at him. “So how about you tell me what you’re really afraid of and stop wasting my time telling me about how Peter can’t be trusted to make decisions for himself?”

Put that way, it sounded not only stupid, but also kind of insulting to Peter’s intelligence. “Um.”

Sara arched an eyebrow at him. “You think about it. I’m going to decide what to order.” She opened her menu decisively.

“I don’t -” Neal began.

“Shh,” Sara replied, barely glancing at him. “Less talking, more thinking.”

Neal shut his mouth. Maybe she was right; she usually was, after all. But he’d been all in right up until Kramer had talked to him. It was only after that that he’d started having all sorts of doubts about whether they really doing the right thing. But that didn’t make sense; if he’d been all in, _really_ all in, then Kramer wouldn’t have made a difference. He’d have gone to Peter with it, like Sara said. So there had to be something else that had already been bothering him before then.

_Oh._

“I don’t like hockey.”

Sara glanced up. “What?”

“I don’t like hockey,” Neal repeated. “It’s too violent. People get hurt, and it scares me to think that Peter could get hurt, really badly hurt. I’ve only seen him play one game, and I could barely watch it. And then the next game he played in he _did_ get hurt, and watching that, even on TV, was awful. I hated it.”

“Hmm,” Sara said, thoughtfully. “And so yesterday -”

“Kramer said Peter might be targeted on the ice if he came out, even more than he already is. That’s what got to me.”

The waiter arrived then to take their orders. Sara ordered for both of them, since Neal hadn’t even opened his menu, but Neal barely heard her. Once the waiter had gone, she looked at him, face gone very serious. “Well, that makes a lot more sense.”

“Yeah, it does,” Neal said, then sighed. “But on the other hand -”

“It’s a genuine problem,” Sara finished. “Peter is a professional hockey player. Out or not, he’s not going to stop being a professional hockey player for a while yet.”

“I know. And he says he’s as careful as he can be, but that’s not a guarantee.”

“Of course not. Nothing is.” She was thinking of the knee injury that had ruined her own career, Neal could tell. “Can you live with that?”

Neal didn't answer. The sort of knee injury that had benched Sara was possible in almost any sport. It would be bad, but it wasn’t what scared Neal. A knee injury would be bad, but a head injury would be terrible, and Neal knew that was far more likely in hockey than in figure skating. Peter could have easily hit his head when he’d gone down in his last group game, and Neal couldn’t stop thinking about the might-have-been’s.

A knee injury might stop Peter from skating. But a head injury might stop him from _being Peter_.

Neal swallowed. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “But I guess I need to figure it out. If I can’t, I should tell Peter. That way if something comes out, he can just deny it. He won’t have to worry about - about us.”

Sara’s mouth twisted, the corners turning down unhappily. “Neal, you should really think about this. You’ve been so happy the last few weeks.”

Neal looked away. “I know. I really thought - I still think - he and I could be something great. But I don’t know if I can watch him get thrown into the boards and pretend it doesn’t scare the hell out of me. And he shouldn’t have to be with someone who can’t stand to watch him play.”

Sara frowned. “I think you need to talk to him either way. You can’t just unilaterally decide things for him.”

“Yeah,” Neal said, slumping. “That’ll be a really fun conversation.”

Sara looked sympathetic, but she didn’t disagree. The food arrived. It looked and smelled delicious, but Neal couldn’t do much more than pick at his. He felt sick, and he wondered if it wouldn’t be better to just not call Peter at all. Neal wasn’t sure that Peter could say anything that would change the fundamental facts of the situation. But it would also be the coward’s way out, and Peter deserved better than that from him.

His phone buzzed as they were paying the check, and Neal glanced at it. To his shock it was a message from Peter.

_I need to talk to you._

Neal grimaced at the shortness of the message. He didn’t know what was going on, but nothing about that boded well. _In Salzburg,_ he wrote back quickly. _Back in the Village in about 30. I can come to your place?_

_OK,_ was the only response he received. Neal sighed.

“What?” Sara asked.

“Peter,” Neal said, indicating his phone before slipping it in his pocket. “I guess I’d better just go and do this.”

“Neal, please think about it first,” Sara said, an uncharacteristically pleading note in her voice. “And _talk_ to him. Don’t just throw this away.”

“I won’t,” Neal said. “I’m not. But if I can’t handle this, then it’s better to know now than six months from now.”

“I guess,” Sara said reluctantly. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Neal said. He let her hug him, pressing his face against her hair. “I might see you tonight. I’m thinking about moving down with you and June like we planned.”

Sara nodded. “Okay. Let us know.”

They parted ways outside the restaurant. Neal headed back up to the village on autopilot, barely paying any attention to what was going on around him. He was nervous and upset and a little angry, but mostly he was _sad_. He wanted Peter to talk him out of this, but he wasn’t sure that anything Peter could say would really help. 

The village was quieter, slowly emptying of athletes as people finished their events. Neal jogged up the stairs to Peter’s place and tried not to think of all the other times he’d come here. For a while, he’d felt like anything was possible, like the Olympics were a preview of everything the two of them might have: a home together, with their friends and teammates coming and going, their lives perfectly in sync. He didn’t feel like that was possible anymore.

Peter looked tired and strained when he opened the door, as though he hadn’t slept well. “Hey. Come in.”

“Hi,” Neal said awkwardly. He stepped inside. “I’m sorry for last night. You didn’t deserve that, and I didn’t mean it. I was just tired, and I had a lot on my mind.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Peter said shortly, leading the way into the small living room.

“No, I do,” Neal said, because if they were going to break up, then they were going to break up, but he didn’t want Peter to think it was because Neal didn’t like him. “It was wrong of me to talk to you like that, and I’m sorry I hurt you.” He took a deep breath. “Look, something happened yesterday. I didn’t tell you about it, because it really threw me.”

Peter turned around. For the first time since he’d opened the door, he lost his look of studied indifference. “What?”

“Phil Kramer,” Neal said. “He approached me in June’s hotel yesterday.”

Peter’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Goddammit. What did he say to you?”

Neal blinked, taken aback by Peter’s tone. “A lot of things. He knows about us.”

“I know,” Peter said, then shook his head. “You should’ve told me right away, Neal. Why didn’t you?”

“It threw me, like I said. He made it sound like it’d be really bad for you if anyone found out about us - not just dangerous for your career, but for _you_. He said he was looking out for you, because he knew you wouldn’t.”

Peter snorted. “Phil Kramer doesn’t look out for anyone but Phil Kramer. And he hasn’t liked me since the lockout last year. I did a lot of negotiating and PR for the Players' Association, and I was a huge pain in his ass. I think he’s looking to return the favor, or maybe just get rid of me altogether.”

“Oh,” Neal said. He’d known there was something he hadn’t liked about Kramer, right from the beginning.

“Yeah.” Peter rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I actually got a phone call from him the day before yesterday that made me think he might know. That’s why I met Elizabeth for lunch yesterday, to talk about contingency plans. But it didn’t occur to me that he’d try and get to me through you.”

Neal grimaced. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Kind of,” Peter said, sounding rueful. He looked Neal in the eye, smiling a little, and for a moment, everything was all right. “Anyway, the reason I wanted to see you is that he actually called me again this morning.” He reached for his cell phone. “I started recording it when I realized who it was, because - well, because.”

“Probably smart.” As Moz liked to say, it wasn’t paranoia if they were really after you.

Peter sat down on the sofa, and Neal took a seat next to him. Peter put his cell phone on the coffee table in front of them and switched it on. ”- out celebrating our win last night with the team,” Peter’s voice said, small but clear through the phone’s speakers.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Kramer’s voice replied. “It was a good game, wasn’t it? Very exciting. Did your friend Neal like it?”

There was a brief pause in the recording. Then Peter replied, “He did, sir.”

“That’s good, that’s good.”

Another pause, longer this time. “Just calling to check in again?” Peter finally asked.

“Well, no,” Kramer said, and gave a sigh. “I wish that was the case. You see, Peter, I have something I need to ask you. Are you in a relationship with Neal Caffrey?”

The pause this time was the longest yet. Finally Peter said, “Can I ask what prompted you to ask me that?”

“So far, only rumors,” Kramer said. “But you know how these things go. If there are rumors now, well, there’s bound to be more than rumors in the future. And once something gets leaked to the press . . .”

“Yes,” Peter said, slowly. “Have you spoken to Elizabeth Mitchell yet?”

“No, not yet,” Kramer said. “I was hoping we might keep this just between us for now. You know I’m just looking out for you, don’t you, Pete?”

“Yes, of course,” Peter’s recorded voice said. Neal glanced at the flesh-and-blood Peter sitting beside him. Peter’s jaw visibly tightened.

“Because the fact of the matter is,” Kramer went on, “if this becomes public knowledge, I won’t be able to protect you. If I were you, I’d think very carefully about the ways in which this would impact my life.”

“I have, sir.”

“Have you? Do you realize what effect this will have on your ability to play, to be an effective captain, to negotiate for yourself?”

There was yet another pause. Neal glanced at Peter and saw there was a muscle jumping in his jaw. “In order,” Peter’s voice said at last, very evenly, “it will have zero effect on my ability to play or be an effective captain. As for my ability to negotiate for myself, I’m not sure what you mean, but I assume you’re referring to my contract renewal next season.”

Kramer sighed. “Pete, you’re being naive if you think this won’t affect you as a player or a captain. And you might want to ask yourself how many clubs will be interested in the first openly gay NHL player.”

“I wasn’t under the impression, sir, that I needed to worry about other clubs. You know I have every intention of being a Sabre for life.”

“Yes, well, I’m certain you understand that there are no guarantees about that. I’m sure you intend to ask for quite a bit more next year, and you know we’ll be facing a cap problem.”

“This isn’t the time to talk about this,” Peter said, brusquely. “But thank you for calling, Mr. Kramer. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“Good. Enjoy your rest day, Pete.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The call ended. Peter turned the phone off and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

Neither of them spoke for nearly a minute. Finally Neal cleared his throat. “What did he mean by a ‘cap problem’?”

Peter sighed. “We have a salary cap in hockey. There’s no limit on how much an individual player can make, but no team can spend more than a certain amount on paying its players. Our pay is - well, I’m not going to be ridiculous and call it low, but it is low compared to the NBA or NFL. The Sabres are going to have a cap problem next year when a bunch of our core players re-sign.”

“I see,” Neal said slowly. Then he shook his head. “No, I don’t. I get that he was threatening you with something, but I’m not sure what it was.”

“He was threatening to trade me if I come out - or get outed,” Peter said. “Or maybe just release me as a free agent and let me fend for myself. It wouldn’t go over that great with the fans, but they could blame it on the cap problem, say I’m too much of a hit, claim it doesn’t have anything to do with my sexuality.”

Neal raised his eyebrows. “Would anyone believe that?”

Peter shrugged. “Maybe not, but it’s plausible enough for him to save face. The thing is.” He stopped.

“What?” Neal asked after a few seconds.

“I think he has something,” Peter said, looking at Neal. “I don’t think it’s just rumors. I think he has evidence. Photos, maybe, from that night we were at the bar. I wasn’t as careful as I should have been. I have no real reason for thinking that,” he added, before Neal could ask, “but it’s a gut feeling. I know Kramer better than I’d like, and I know how his brain works. I think he has something, and that means that at any moment, he could leak the news.”

“Right,” Neal said, feeling sick. He looked at Peter’s phone, lying innocently on the table. “What do you need from me?”

Peter was silent. “Right now,” he said at last, “I need to know where we stand. I get that Kramer freaked you out. But I need to know where we stand because I need to know what to do. El is pushing me to come out before Kramer can out me so she can control the narrative, but before I do that, I want to know - I need to know if I should. And aside from that, if I’m going to be asked about our relationship, then I need to know how I should answer.”

Neal swallowed. This was the part he’d been dreading since he’d received Peter’s text. “Don’t. We’re not worth you risking your career.”

“We’re not?” Peter said, sounding less steady.

“No.” Neal looked at him. “In fact, I’ve been thinking that maybe this has all been moving way too fast. I don’t know if this is a good idea at all. And it’s not - it’s not that you’re not out. It’s hockey, Peter.”

Peter’s lips parted, but no sound came out. “Oh,” he managed at last.

“I’m sorry,” Neal said, because he really was. “I don’t think I can watch you get slammed around on the ice every night and pretend to be okay with it. And you should be with someone who can stand to watch you play.”

“Neal, you know I’m careful,” Peter said, a note of desperation in his voice. “As careful as I can be, and -”

Neal shook his head. “Peter, I’m sorry. The honest truth is that if you hit the boards at the wrong angle, it won’t matter how careful you were. I don’t think I can watch you play knowing that.” Neal stopped, swallowing, seeing it once more before his mind’s eye: Peter lying on the ice after the hit he’d taken the night of his short program, not moving, not getting up. “So don’t - don’t come out because of us.”

“Yeah,” Peter said heavily. “Yeah, okay.” He looked up. “And what if it’s leaked? What should I say? Should I _lie_ , Neal? Because if I do, and later I have to say that I lied, it’ll make everything much harder.”

Neal nodded. “I know, but . . . I think you should deny it. I’m sorry, I know that’s not what you want to hear. But it’ll be better for you.” He glanced at his watch and stood. “I should go,” he said, though there was nowhere he had to be. “I’m going to move down into Salzburg this afternoon. There’s room for me in June’s suite. I think I left a couple things here, so I’ll just -” He gestured toward the bedroom.

“Yeah,” Peter said again. He looked shellshocked. Neal couldn’t stand to look at him, knowing he’d put that look on Peter’s face, so he went into the bedroom. It only took a couple minutes to shove all his things in his duffel bag. He did one last survey, then slung the bag over his shoulder and went back out.

Peter was sitting exactly where Neal had left him, head in his hands. Neal hovered awkwardly, then cleared his throat. “I’ll see you around, all right?” 

Peter snorted. “Yeah, sure,” he said, with undisguised bitterness. “I’d ask if you still wanted to come to the game tomorrow night, just as my friend, but don’t worry, I’ll spare you having to say no.”

Neal sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry. Peter, I really am. I wanted this to work just as much as you did.”

“I doubt that,” Peter said, giving a brief, humorless chuckle. “But fine. Whatever. See you around.”

There wasn’t anything to do then but turn and let himself out. Neal held it together all the way down the stairs and out onto the street. In fact, he made it all the way back to his apartment, where he packed the rest of his things, and then down to the hotel in Salzburg before he felt himself start to crack. Even then, he might’ve been able to keep it up, had Sara not taken one look at him and sighed, throwing her arms around him.

“Dammit, Neal,” she said into his ear. “I told you not to be stupid.”

Neal crumbled.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter got through the next day and a half on auto-pilot. He let Jones tell him when to eat and when to sleep and let him shepherd him to practice when it was time and home when it was over. He’d been cleared for play, about two hours before Kramer had called him the day before, so at least he had things to _do_.

He avoided his parents and Helena. He avoided Elizabeth. He even avoided Diana. He probably would’ve avoided Jones, too, if he could have, so it was a good thing he couldn’t. He missed Diana’s semi-final because the idea of going out in public and having anyone ask him about Neal was unbearable. He felt horrible about it, but not horrible enough force himself to go.

“What do you want me to tell her?” Jones asked, as he was getting ready to leave for the game.

“Whatever you want,” Peter said from where he sat slumped on the sofa. “The truth, I guess.”

Jones raised his eyebrows. “What, that you’re too depressed to leave the apartment because you got dumped?” Peter shrugged. “You have to snap out of this by game time tomorrow, you know.”

“I will,” Peter promised. “I _will_ ,” he insisted, when Jones failed to look convinced.

“You’d better,” Jones said, turning to go, “or Caffrey’s going to have to answer to the whole damn team.”

Peter let his head fall to rest on the back of the couch. Then he lifted it. “Hey, Jones.” Jones turned. “Kramer - he found out from someone, didn’t he? Someone on the team.”

Jones grimaced. “Yeah, I thought about that. He must’ve. I don’t know who,” he added, before Peter could ask. “But I can try and find out. Keep an ear out, see if anyone else knows anything.”

“Thanks,” Peter said with a sigh. He should probably care more, but it seemed like an awful lot of effort.

He watched the game on TV, alone. Diana’s team lost, which meant they’d be playing for bronze. Peter knew exactly how much that stung, and he wasn’t so caught up in his own crap that he didn’t feel bad for her. He sent her a text to tell her he was sorry, and she wrote back that she was, too - not only about the game, but also about him and Neal. _Yeah, me too_ , he sent back. Then he turned his phone off and went to bed, so that he’d be asleep by the time Jones got home.

Despite his promise to Jones, Peter didn’t really feel clear-headed until he walked into the locker room before his own semifinal. Nothing smelled quite like a locker room. This one was pretty new, but it still had that particular smell - many might’ve called it a stench - that went straight to the back of Peter’s brain and said, _Wake up. Game on._

“Oh, thank God,” Jones said, startling him. He clapped him on the shoulder. “I’d been wondering if you were going to show up.”

Peter gritted his teeth. “Let’s do this. I’m not playing for bronze again.” He was going to come home from the Olympics with a broken heart one way or another. But that’d be easier to swallow if he also came home with a gold medal.

Well, no, probably not.

It was a good game, the best Peter had played in a long time. The Swedes weren’t as physical as the Russians, and it was a lot less chippy than the game against the Finns that Peter had watched from the press box. The Swedes were fast and had great stick-handling, and if Peter hadn’t been busy trying to kick their asses, he’d have loved to watch them play, just to take their game apart.

His ribs ached, there was no denying that. At home he’d have sat out another game or two, but he wasn’t going to miss out on this. The only thing worse than having to play for bronze would be to get a gold medal he felt he hadn’t done anything for. And the pain was nothing he hadn’t played through in the past. As long as he didn’t think about Neal, or about Neal’s face as he told Peter he just couldn’t handle watching him play hockey, he was fine.

They won. They won on Peter’s goal, in fact, in the last thirty seconds of the game. He broke away from the pack, raced down the ice with at least two defensemen on his tail, faked out the Swedes’ goalie with a deke to the left and then sliced it in, straight to the upper lefthand corner.

It was one of the best goals of Peter’s life - top five, definitely - and it meant they were going to the gold medal game. Peter’s teammates swarmed over the boards to celebrate. Peter didn’t have to force himself to smile; this felt damn good. But it also felt a little . . . hollow. Not as good as he’d thought it would, as he still thought it should. He wondered if this was what it was going to be like for a while, if everything would feel a little bit worse. He wondered if he’d have mixed feelings about his medal, if he’d look at it and instead of thinking, with pride, _Look what I did_ , he’d think about Neal and what they could have had. He wondered if Neal already felt that way about his own medal.

The guys went out afterward, of course. Peter knew he should go with them, but once they were done dealing with the press - no questions about Neal, thank God - all he wanted to do was go back to his apartment and sleep. Jones offered to come with him, keep him company, but Peter waved him off. He’d already spent too much time baby-sitting Peter in the last couple of days.

His phone buzzed while he was getting ready for bed. He thought it might be from his parents or Helena, whom he’d avoided again after the game. To his shock, it was from Neal.

_Nice game_.

Peter didn’t know how he should respond to that. He’d sort of expected to never speak to Neal again, and here he was, texting him as though he hadn’t broken up with him the day before.

Peter was tempted not to write back, but his mother had raised him too well. _Thanks_ , he wrote back. He hesitated, typed out a number of things, and erased all of them. Finally he settled on, _Did you watch?_

_Caught the highlights. Good luck with the gold medal game._

_Thanks_. Peter turned his phone off. He wanted it to mean something, but he was pretty sure all it meant was that Neal Caffrey wasn’t a jerk. 

He slept better that night than he had since Neal had told him it was over and woke up feeling as though the world might not actually end. He felt well enough, in fact, that when his mother texted him to see if he wanted to meet them for breakfast, he said yes.

They knew something was wrong, and it didn’t take them long to get the whole story out of him. It was the first time he’d told it; Jones and Diana knew he and Neal had broken up, but not why. They probably assumed it had something to do with him being in the closet. It might’ve been easier if it _had_ , Peter thought. There was something he could do about that, at least.

“Jeez,” Helena said when he was done talking. “That sucks.”

Peter snorted a laugh. “Yeah, it does.” He rolled his shoulders. “But, you know, it is what it is. I can’t let it distract me.”

His mother, when he dared look at her, just looked sad. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said, reaching out to brush her hand over Peter’s hair. “I really hoped . . .” She bit her lip.

“Me too,” Peter admitted.

“You’ll meet someone else, son,” was his father’s contribution. Peter managed a smile and then a bite of breakfast. He had to keep his strength up. He had a gold medal to win tomorrow.

They had an optional skate early that afternoon, and Peter went just to have something to do. Diana showed up toward the end as everyone else was leaving the ice. Peter and Jones stayed out, chatting while she laced up her skates and grabbed a stick. They scrimmaged a bit, nothing too intense since none of them were willing to risk an injury. Peter knew it was their way of showing him their support, but for a few minutes it felt so much like Buffalo all over again that Peter kept looking up, expecting to see Neal at the other end of the ice. It was a punch to the gut, remembering those days now, how filled with anticipation he’d felt, as though he were on the precipice of something great. The only time he’d felt anything that even came close had been in the lead-up to his draft day.

“How’re you feeling about the game tonight?” he asked, putting his arm around her shoulders, “I’m sorry for missing the other night.”

“Hey, no hard feelings,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder. “I get it.”

“How’re you feeling about it?” he asked.

She shrugged. “It’s never anyone’s dream to play for bronze, but I still want it. It’d be pretty awesome to stand on the podium.”

“That’s a good attitude,” Peter said. Better than his own had been going into his own bronze game four years ago. “And four years from now -”

“Damn right,” she said with a bright grin. “How about you? How’re you doing?”

Peter grimaced. “I’m okay. It’s for the best, I guess. Better now than a year from now when our lives are all tangled up with each other.”

Diana glanced at Jones. “I guess.”

They parted ways inside the village, Diana and Peter both heading back to their respective apartments, while Jones went off to meet one of their teammates for coffee. In the apartment, Peter sat down on his bed and pulled up some game tape on his laptop for the lack of anything better to do; the results of the Canada-Russia game were in, and they’d be playing Canada for gold, just as Peter had predicted. He rewatched the game, taking notes on a pad, until he felt his eyes start to get heavy. He’d slept better last night, but he still hadn’t slept as well as he was used to. He fell asleep between the first period and the second. 

He was woken by his phone. Peter grumbled and reached out, groping for . “‘lo,” he mumbled around a yawn, not looking at the screen.

“Peter, it’s Elizabeth.”

There was something in El’s voice, some note of sharpness, that made Peter sit up. “El, hey. What’s going on?”

El let out a breath. “Peter, _Deadspin_ has it.”

Peter felt the blood drain from his face. “What?”

“They haven’t posted it yet - they contacted me because they want a comment first, which is more journalistic integrity than I’d usually give them credit for. But they have the story, with art.”

Peter’s jaw clenched. “ _Kramer_.”

“Probably,” El agreed. “Look, I don’t know what kind of photos they have, but these days, even with pictures, we can deny it. Say it’s not you or that they’ve been Photoshopped. That’s one option. You know the other option. I can fob them off for an hour or two. You should talk to Neal.”

Peter swallowed. “I talked to Neal already. Kramer called me again, and -”

“Wait, what do you mean Kramer called you again?” Elizabeth demanded. “Peter, why didn’t you call me?”

Peter groaned. “Oh God, I should have, of course, but I just - it didn’t occur to me.”

“What the hell do you mean it didn’t _occur_ to you?” Elizabeth said. “Peter! We could’ve gotten a jump on this!”

“Neal broke up with me,” Peter said flatly. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you, but I was sort of non-functional afterward.”

There was dead silence on the other end of the line. “Are you okay?” Elizabeth asked at last.

“Not particularly,” Peter said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“No, of course not. Peter -

“It doesn’t matter,” Peter said. He really, really did not want to talk about it. “I had a reason for coming out before, and now I don’t. So I guess it’d be a lot easier not to. But depending on what they have, it might be a moot point.”

Elizabeth was quiet. “Peter, I know you must be really upset, and I know the gold medal game is tomorrow, and it’s terrible timing. But it’s one thing to stay quietly in the closet and something else to stand up and say you’re something you’re not. Are you sure you want to do that?”

“No,” Peter sighed. “I just don’t think there are any good options here. And Kramer was pretty clear that if I came out or was outed, they wouldn’t re-sign me next year. They’ll say I’m too much of a cap hit and cut me loose.”

“Did he say that?”

“Not as such,” Peter said. “I recorded the call, so you can listen and see what you think.”

“That was smart,” Elizabeth said. “Just in case -”

“I end up suing the club?” Peter said wryly. “Yeah, because that’ll make me so much more attractive as a player.”

“Peter,” Elizabeth said softly, “I just can’t believe he’d do it. You’re the captain, you’re incredibly popular with the fans, and you’re the best defenseman we have.”

“None of those things make me untouchable. Anyway, I guess it wouldn’t be so bad as long as I can find another club to take me. I wouldn’t have to deal with Kramer anymore at least.” He’d miss Jones like his right arm, and he’d miss Diana and El and the fans almost as much. But it was the reality of hockey. Not many players played out their careers in one place.

“What should I do?” Elizabeth asked after a long silence. “It’s your call, Peter.”

Peter didn’t answer. Neal had told him to deny it. Neal had said their relationship wasn’t worth it, and then he’d said he didn’t want to be with Peter anyway, because he was too afraid of seeing Peter get hurt to watch him play. Neal had gone through being outed, and he’d said Peter had no idea what it was like. Neal had also told him, once, that in the long run he’d been glad. But figure skating wasn’t hockey, as everyone kept reminding him. Peter might not be glad in the long-run, especially if he came out and still didn’t have Neal. 

He didn’t want to live in the closet forever, but he could wait until he retired. That would be the prudent thing to do.

But the story was out there now, and even if he denied it, he wondered if it would ever really go away - if the rumors about his sexuality would follow him the way that other players’ partying followed them, mentioned in every interview, every story, if only briefly. And to admit later that not only was he gay, but he’d lied about it . . . that would send a message Peter didn’t like.

Maybe, Peter thought, it was time to be brave.

“Peter?” Elizabeth said.

Peter swallowed. “Yeah, I’m here. You should confirm the story.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. “Really?” Elizabeth finally said.

“Really,” Peter said, managing to sound firm. “What comes next? Should I give an interview before tomorrow? Diana’s game is tonight, and the gold medal game -”

“Don’t worry about it for now,” Elizabeth said. “Warn your parents and Neal. Stay in the village unless you’ve got skate and don’t get on social media. I’m going to confirm that it’s you in the photo, but I’m going to say you’re not talking to anyone about it until after the game tomorrow. But you need to be ready, Peter. The first question you get is going to be about this.”

“What about Diana’s game? I missed the semifinal, but I promised her I’d go.”

Elizabeth was silent for a few seconds. “Well, the story hasn’t broken yet. I can hold them off at least until after the game, but probably not much longer than that. It’ll probably break overnight.”

“Okay,” Peter said. He drew a deep breath. “As long as I can cheer Diana on, I’m ready.”

“Good,” El said. “And for what it’s worth - Peter, I’m really proud of you. And I’m proud to be the one helping you with this.”

“Thanks, El,” Peter said, throat suddenly feeling a little tight. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.” Elizabeth disconnected.

He called his parents first, because that was the easier phone call. He told them to wear hats and sunglasses when they went out and to see about changing hotels if they didn’t want to be bothered by the press. He texted El to see about getting them special transportation up to the stadium for the game the next night, maybe even smuggling them in through the players’ entrance. 

Then he went out to the living room, where he found Jones and Kegs watching a movie on Jones’s laptop.

“Hey,” Jones said, looking up at him. “Good nap?”

“Not really,” Peter said, then cleared his throat. “I, um. Some photos of me and Neal leaked to _Deadspin._ ”

“Whoa,” Jones said, eyes widening.

“Shit, man,” Kegs said, reaching out to pause the DVD. “You gonna deny it?”

“No, I’m not. Thought about it,” Peter admitted, “but - no. I’m going to say it was me.”

“Wow,” Jones said. “Hats off, Peter. That takes balls.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, though he wasn’t sure how much bravery his decision really represented. It hadn’t been entirely his own choice, after all. But Peter was tired of hiding. Blackmail only worked if there was shame involved, and Peter decided he’d had enough of that for one lifetime.

“You’re gonna make history,” Kegs said, still wide-eyed.

Peter laughed. “Yeah, I guess so. I’d rather win our game tomorrow and make history that way, though.”

“No reason you can’t do both,” Jones said with a grin. He quickly turned serious, frowning. “Have you talked to Neal yet?”

“No, I still need to make that phone call,” Peter said, grimacing. “I guess I should do that before he finds out any other way. I owe him that much.”

“I’m not sure you do,” Jones said darkly, “but I might be biased. “Good luck, all right?”

“Thanks,” Peter said.

He shut himself back in the bedroom and sat down on the end of the bed, looking at his phone. He had no idea how Neal was going to react, and it wasn’t like this changed much of anything for them in the end. But he hoped Neal would be proud of him.

“Like ripping off a Band-Aid,” Peter muttered, and dialed Neal’s number.

Sara and June put up with Neal’s moping for about half a day before calling in the big guns. Neal wasn’t sure which one of them called Moz or when, exactly, but he showed up for breakfast two days after Neal moved down to Salzburg and just didn’t leave.

Sara and June both left after they finished eating, claiming they had just a few more souvenirs to pick up for people back home. As soon as they’d gone, Neal got up from the table - they’d ordered room service - and went and sprawled on the bed. If he was going to have this conversation, he was at least going to be comfortable for it.

Moz claimed the armchair by Neal’s bed and put his sock-clad feet up, ignoring entirely Neal’s glare. “Well, what does this remind you of?” he asked. Neal rolled his eyes. “I’ll tell you,” Moz went on. “It reminds me of coming to fetch you out of the flea-infested motel you stayed after Keller sold you out to the tabloids.”

Neal glared. “It wasn’t ‘flea-infested.’ It was fine. And this isn’t like that. Peter didn’t do anything wrong. It was my decision.”

“So Sara said,” Moz said. “If anything I find that more disturbing. You know I was against your relationship with the Mouthguard from the beginning, but you did look obnoxiously pleased with yourself. What happened?”

Neal sighed. “I don’t know. I got scared, I think.”

“Huh. Could it be that you’ve developed a sense of self-preservation at this late date?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure I like it if this is what it feels like.”

“Hmm,” Moz said, noncommittally. “And what, exactly, are you scared of?”

Neal pushed himself up against the headboard and started ticking things off on his fingers. “To start with, I’m afraid Peter will come out or be outed and it will ruin his career. We haven’t been together very long, and I’m not sure our relationship would survive it. So then he’s out of the closet and a job, and also we’ve broken up.”

“Okay,” Moz said. “That’s not a great scenario, I’ll give you that. But I’d think you two could fly under the radar for a while.”

“I thought so, too,” Neal said, and told Moz about Kramer and everything that had happened since Kramer had approached him in the hotel. “So I’m not sure Peter staying in the closet is even an option anymore,” he concluded, “but it’d probably be easier for him if he were single.”

“Hmm,” Moz said again. “And what’s the other thing you’re afraid of?”

Neal grimaced. “I’m afraid of - God, this sounds dumb when I say it aloud. I’m afraid of him getting hurt.”

“That doesn’t sound dumb,” Moz said. “I mean, I’ve never gone in for ‘attachments’” - he made quotation marks with his fingers - “the way most people seem to, but don’t people worry about that sort of thing?”

“Most people aren’t dating a hockey player,” Neal said flatly. “I’m not generally worried about him getting into a car accident, I’m worried very specifically about him slamming head-first into the boards and getting a head or neck injury that ruins not only his career but also the rest of his life. I know that doesn’t actually happen to most hockey players,” he added, before Moz could argue, “but traumatic brain injury from repeated concussions is something that _does_ , and I have a hard time not thinking about it while watching him play.”

Mozzie was quiet. “Hmm,” he said at last. 

“What?” Neal asked, irritably, wondering how it was possible for Moz to pack so much judgment into one syllable. 

“Nothing,” Moz said with a shrug. “It’s just that I remember very clearly you telling me that if you were going to get hurt, you were going to get hurt, but it wasn’t going to be because you were too afraid to try. That that wasn’t how you wanted to live your life.”

_Damn_ Moz and his perfect recall anyway. “This is different.”

“Is it?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Neal snapped. “I was talking about getting dumped. This is - something else.”

“Hmm,” Moz said again. 

“ _What_?”

“It just doesn’t seem that different to me.”

“Well, it does to me,” Neal said, glaring. “I can’t do it, Moz. I can’t. It’s too much.”

Moz shrugged. “That’s fair. If that’s really the case, then you’ve made the right decision.”

Neal sighed. “I sense a _but._ ”

“ _But_ ,” Moz said, “I don’t think it’s true that you can’t do it. And I think that if something like that happened to Peter and you couldn’t be there, it would kill you.”

Neal swallowed. He hadn’t thought about that. He’d thought about watching Peter play, at least eighty-two times a year, and being terrified each time. But the truth was that Neal wasn’t protecting Peter from anything by ending their relationship, especially if Peter was going to be outed one way or another. If Peter was going to get hurt, he’d get hurt whether or not he was with Neal, and Neal couldn’t fool himself into thinking that breaking up with Peter would make him _not care_. But if they weren’t together, he’d have no right to care. He’d have no rights at all. 

“Just so you know,” Neal said at last, “if you were trying to be comforting, you missed the mark.”

Moz patted him on the shoulder. “It’s not my job to be comforting. It’s my job to tell you when you’re screwing up. And guess what? You’re screwing this up. Whether Peter plays the rest of his career injury-free or suffers a career-ending injury in six months, you’re going to regret it.”

Neal closed his eyes. “I thought you were against me and Peter.”

“I was,” Moz said. “And if the Mouthguard asks, I still am. I thought it was going to be a huge distraction, and it has been. But.” He drew a deep breath. “You’ve done some of the best skating of your career since you met Peter. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

Neal couldn’t help giving Moz a half-smile. “So you decided to approve of me and Peter because he’s good for my skating?”

Moz shrugged. “You skate better when you’re happy.”

Neal couldn’t argue with that. 

Having said his piece, Moz disappeared after that, back up to the village or God knows where. Neal spent a long lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and then, when that got boring, sitting in the window, looking down into the square. He wasn’t actively thinking about anything; in fact, he was trying _not_ to think. But he was still aware that in the back of his mind, some decision was being made. He just wasn’t sure yet what it was.

Sara called a few hours later, to see if he wanted to meet her and June for a late lunch. Neal agreed and met them just down the street at a café that had become a favorite of theirs. He did his best to be better company than he had been, and both June and Sara were visibly relieved that he was acting more like himself. He could sense that Sara wanted to probe at him, but June kept the conversation determinedly light and far away from anything to do with Peter. 

They were just leaving the café when his phone rang. Neal glanced at the screen; he’d had a few calls from various media outlets in the last few days. But it wasn’t at all what he’d expected. 

“Neal?” Sara said, pausing as she held the restaurant door open for him. 

He looked up at her. “It’s Peter.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

Neal nodded. “Something must’ve happened. He wouldn’t be calling me otherwise.”

Sara’s eyebrows went up even further. “Well, are you going to answer it?”

“Yeah, I just - I don’t know what I’m going to say.”

June stepped forward and kissed his cheek. “I know you’ll do the right thing.”

“And don’t be stupid,” Sara added. The two of them then set off briskly, leaving Neal to follow. 

He managed to answer his phone just before it rang out. “Hi Peter.”

“Hi Neal,” Peter said, quietly. “How are you?”

Neal gave a low laugh. “I’ve been better.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Me too.” He cleared his throat. “I, um. I’m calling because _Deadspin_ has the story.”

Neal had been expecting something like that, but he still winced. “Damn.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, voice very flat. “And I’ve decided not to deny it.”

That, Neal hadn’t expected. “You’re - you’re going to come out?”

“Yeah, I am,” Peter said. “So you’re probably going to get some questions. I won’t say anything about our relationship if I can help it, and I won’t say anything at all until after the gold medal game. But it’s out there, and I didn’t want you to be blindsided by it.”

“Thanks,” Neal said. “I appreciate that.”

Awkward silence ensued. Neal swallowed. “Peter -”

“Don’t, Neal,” Peter said, sounding tired and bitter. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry again. I know you’re sorry, but it doesn’t actually make this any better.”

“No, that wasn’t what I was going to say.” Neal swallowed again, his throat unbearably dry, and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “I wanted to say - I’m proud of you. This is really brave.”

Peter was silent. “I don’t know how brave it really is. Kramer forced my hand. Lying about it would just give him blackmail material, and it’d make things harder for me later.”

“Still, it’s not the easy way out.”

“No, I guess not.” Peter cleared his throat. “I should -”

“Can I see you?” Neal asked in a rush. “Before everything breaks.”

There was a moment of startled silence on Peter’s end of the line. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Please,” Neal said, suddenly desperate. “I don’t think I explained myself very well before.”

“You explained yourself just fine. I’m not sure what else there is to say.”

“Please,” Neal said again. “Peter, I - I need to see you. Please.”

Peter was silent again. Neal held his breath, certain that Peter was about to tell him no, that he was the last person on Earth he wanted to see.

“Fine. Elizabeth says we have a few hours, so I’m going to Diana’s game tonight. You can come up afterward. I should be back in the village by nine.”

Neal blinked, certain he’d misheard. “What?”

“Come by at nine. I’ll see you then.” Peter disconnected. 

Neal had lost sight of Sara and June, and he was blocking traffic on the sidewalk, but he couldn’t bring himself to move after Peter hung up. His head was spinning and his stomach was suddenly in knots. He was so damn proud of Peter for coming out, and there was, undeniably, a part of himself that wanted to stand next to him when he did it. 

He suddenly wasn’t sure that what he’d told Mozzie - that coming out would be easier for Peter if he was single - was right. From a PR standpoint, maybe; out or not, Neal didn’t think Peter was the type to sleep around, so fans who didn’t like it could just ignore it if he was single. But on the other hand, doing something like this alone was never easy. There had been moments during those weeks after Keller had outed him when Neal would’ve given his right arm for a shoulder to rest his head on at the end of the day. 

But that wasn’t enough, because Peter being in the closet wasn’t the problem. And if Neal didn’t think he could deal with watching Peter put himself at risk every time he went out on the ice, then it shouldn’t be him standing beside Peter. Peter wasn’t on his own; he had Elizabeth helping him and a whole team who would stand behind him, plus his parents and his sister. Peter would be okay without him.

But Neal was still starting to doubt that he’d done the right thing. 

Nothing fundamental had changed. Neal was still afraid of Peter getting hurt, badly hurt. He was afraid enough that he thought he’d probably never like watching hockey. But he wondered if he might be brave enough to live with it, because that was who Peter was, and Neal loved him. And if something did happen, Neal couldn’t imagine anywhere he’d want to be but with Peter. 

Neal watched Diana’s game on the TV in the hotel suite that evening with June and Sara. From what little Neal knew of hockey, it was a great game; the Americans kept scoring, but the Swedes answered them, goal for goal. Diana played like she had something to prove, and from what Peter had said, maybe she did, if there were scouts from European men’s teams in the crowd. She scored once early on, then got an assist on someone else’s goal. “Whatever else happens, this was a good night for Diana Berrigan,” the announcer said. 

By the end of the game, Neal was on the edge of his seat. When one of Diana’s teammates sliced the puck into the net in the last twenty seconds of the game to break the 3-3 tie, he felt a surge of emotion he’d never expected. It wasn’t gold, and Neal knew that had to be disappointing. But they’d played like it _was_ gold, and for that, Neal admired them.

Diana was probably more pissed at him than Peter, but Neal couldn’t help himself: he texted her, _Congratulations!_ She’d probably just delete it, but he didn’t care. 

There were a lot of people out on the streets, celebrating the women’s game and the final days of the Olympics when Neal left to head up to the village. He was wearing a scarf wrapped around the bottom of his face, and a hat pulled down low; no one said a word to him, either in the streets or on the tram. 

In contrast to Salzburg proper, the village was quiet and empty. It was snowing a little, just a light dusting, and Neal kept his gloved hands in his pockets as he walked from the tram stop to Peter’s building. He turned the corner onto Peter’s street and came to a startled stop. 

Jones and Diana were waiting for him at the entrance to Peter’s building. 

“Hey,” he said, cautiously. 

“Hi Neal,” Jones said, just as Diana said, “Caffrey.”

Neal waited a beat, but neither of them said anything more. “Shouldn’t you guys be out celebrating?” he finally asked. “Diana, you just won a medal. Congratulations, by the way, I hope you got my text.” 

“Oh, I got it,” Diana said, crossing her arms over her chest. “And yeah, I should be four drinks in right now, but I’m not, because you’re here. So you can cut the crap and tell us why you wanted to see Peter. ‘Cause I gotta say, Neal, he’s got a gold medal game tomorrow, and the last thing he needs is for you to mess with his head again.”

“Uh,” Neal said, frowning. “He agreed to see me.”

“And he shouldn’t have,” Diana returned flatly. 

“What Diana means,” Jones broke in, “is that we’re worried about Peter. You dumping him kind of flattened him for a while, and none of us want to see that happen again.”

“Believe me, I don’t either,” Neal said, holding his hands up. “But I think I might’ve made a mistake.”

“You think you _might’ve_ made a mistake?” Diana repeated. “What the hell does -”

“Diana,” Jones said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Stop. Neal, explain.”

Neal was cold, and he wanted to see Peter before he lost his nerve. But he got where Diana and Jones were coming from; if the tables had been turned, he was pretty sure Sara and Moz wouldn’t have let Peter in to see him at all. He exhaled. “Look. I don’t know how much Peter told you, but here’s the thing: hockey scares me. I don’t like violence, and hockey is a violent game. I don’t like knowing that there are two dozen ways Peter could get really, really hurt, any time he goes out on the ice.”

Neal didn’t know what Jones and Diana had expected, but they both looked surprised. “Wait, that’s why you broke up?” Jones said. “I thought it had to do with him being in the closet.”

Neal shook his head. “I never cared about that. But I think - I think I panicked, and I made a bad decision.”

“Maybe not,” Diana said. “If you don’t think you could handle it if he got hurt, then you’re better off turning around and walking away right now. Because if he gets hurt and you abandon him, there will be nowhere you can hide from me.”

Neal bristled, but Jones got there first. “Diana, seriously, chill out. That’s not what Neal’s saying. At least I don’t think it is,” he added, looking at Neal. “It’s not really that Peter might get injured, it’s that you can’t stand being afraid for him all the time.”

“Yeah,” Neal said, relaxing fractionally. He hadn’t even managed to explain it to himself that clearly, but Jones got it. “Exactly.”

Jones sighed. “I get it, man. My mom used to worry about me a lot. I’ve been in the show long enough now that it doesn’t bother her as much, but I still call her after most games.” He hesitated. “You know, there are guys who are unlucky on the ice, or who get targeted a lot because of who they are. Peter isn’t one of them. His broken leg this last year is the only major injury he’s ever had, and he doesn’t have a history of concussions. He takes good care of himself. I don’t know if this helps, but he’s got a really good chance of finishing his career pretty healthy.”

Neal sort of wanted to hug Jones, but he thought Diana might punch him. He settled for giving Jones a shaky smile. “Thanks. I don’t know if it helps, either, but I’m glad to know that.”

“Hmm,” Diana said, sounding unimpressed. “This would almost be sweet if it wasn’t kind of stupid.”

Neal rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Diana.”

“Anytime,” she said, but she was kind of smiling. “Okay, fine, you can talk to Peter. But if you get his hopes up only to break his heart again, then I swear -”

“- there will be nowhere I can hide from you,” Neal finished. “Out of curiosity, what were you going to do if you decided I shouldn’t talk to Peter?”

Diana pinned him with her gaze. “Be glad you didn’t have to find out,” she said, and with that - and a somewhat apologetic glance from Jones - the two of them left, traipsing carefully through the inch or so of accumulated powder. 

Neal took a deep breath. Then he let himself into the building and climbed the stairs to Peter’s apartment. 

The door was open when he got there. Peter was waiting for him, leaning in the threshold. He was wearing a long-sleeved thermal shirt and track pants, and Neal didn’t think he’d ever looked better. “Hey,” Neal said. 

“Hey,” Peter replied. He moved aside, letting Neal into the apartment. “You got past Jones and Diana. I can’t wait to find out how.”

“Yeah,” Neal said, shrugging out of his coat, even though Peter hadn’t offered to take it. “You could’ve given me a little warning there, you know.”

“No,” Peter said flatly. “I really couldn’t. I have a gold medal game to play tomorrow, and I’m in the middle of being outed on the internet. I don’t have time to mess around. If they’d decided I shouldn’t see you, I’d have trusted their judgment.”

“Well, they didn’t.”

“I know. I’m curious about what you said to them.”

Neal buried his hands in his coat to hide how badly they were shaking and drew a deep breath. He hadn’t known for sure - even downstairs, talking to Diana and Jones, he hadn’t quite known for sure. But now, he did. He was still afraid, but he was also certain that whatever happened, good or bad, he wanted to face it with Peter, if only Peter would let him. 

“I got scared,” Neal said plainly. “Kramer scared me, but it wasn’t just him - it wasn’t even mostly him. Your injury scared me, and the idea of being that afraid for the rest of your hockey career scared me. I didn’t think I could deal with it.”

“I know. “ Neither Peter’s face nor his voice gave away anything. “So you’ve said.”

“But I was wrong. I made a huge mistake, Peter.” Neal’s voice shook, and he had to stop and swallow. “I’m so proud of you for what you’re doing, and whatever happens, I want to be the one standing next to you.”

Peter was silent. The only part of him that moved was a muscle in his jaw that Neal could see jumping minutely. “You can’t tell me you’re not still afraid,” Peter said at last. 

“No,” Neal replied. “I’m still afraid. But I don’t want to let that stop me. Stop us.” He tried to smile and thought he might have mostly managed it. “I can’t promise I’ll ever stop watching your games through my fingers, but it’s worth it. We’re worth it.”

“Are we?” Peter said, face unreadable. “That’s not what you said before.”

“I was wrong. I was wrong to say that to you, Peter. I didn’t mean it.”

“You sure sounded like you did,” Peter said quietly. He still hadn’t moved, and Neal couldn’t help but think that was a bad sign. “You said that we weren’t worth coming out for.”

“I’m sorry,” Neal said, not sure what else he could say. “I’m so sorry, Peter. I shouldn’t have said that, it’s not true, I just -”

“Got scared,” Peter finished. “I know.” He took a deep breath. “The thing is, Neal - my life is about to get really complicated. I can’t do this if we’re not both all in. It’s unfair for us to have to decide that so soon, but it’s the way it is. And nothing that was wrong before has changed.”

“I have,” Neal said quietly. 

Peter sucked in a breath. “How do I know that?”

“You can’t,” Neal admitted. “But, Jesus, Peter, I promise you I’m going to try like hell. I can’t promise that I’m always going to love watching you play, but I’ll be damned if I let - if I let my fear of being afraid make my decisions for me. So please, let me try again.”

Peter swallowed. “I want to.”

“Then say yes,” Neal said, and dared to take a step forward. Peter didn’t step away, and Neal’s heart leapt in his chest. “Just say yes, Peter. Let’s try one more time.”

Peter swallowed again. “If this doesn’t work out, Diana might actually kill you.”

“I know,” Neal said, unable to keep the smile off his face.

“Just as long as you’re aware of the risks.” Peter’s voice cracked on the last word, and Neal couldn’t hold back any longer. He closed the distance between them, and when Peter didn’t back away, pulled him into his arms, one hand on the back of Peter’s neck and the other tight around his waist. Peter went still, then melted into it, pressing his temple against Neal’s.

“I’m aware,” Neal murmured. “I’m very, very aware, Peter, I promise.”

Peter took a deep, shaky breath. “These have been the longest three days of my life.”

“I’m sorry,” Neal said, tightening his hold on Peter. 

Peter pulled away, just far enough to rest his forehead against Neal’s. “I think the story broke on _Deadspin_. My phone’s been going off for an hour now.”

“You haven’t looked at it yet?” 

Peter shook his head. “I’m not going to comment on it until after the game. I’ll look at it tomorrow.” He sighed.” I could’ve done this alone, but I’m really glad not to have to.” He hesitated, eyes searching Neal’s. “Can I ask what changed your mind?”

Neal shrugged. “It was Mozzie, actually.”

“Mozzie?” Peter said incredulously. 

“Yep,” Neal said. “He said some things that made sense.”

Peter blinked and shook his head, like he was trying to clear his ears. “Wait. _Mozzie_ said things that made sense. Are we talking about the same guy? About yay tall” - Peter held his hand at about the level of his chest - “bald, glasses, paranoid?”

Neal poked Peter in the chest. “Yes. It does happen occasionally. Moz’s gotten me through some rough times, and he’s never steered me wrong. He made me realize I was being a coward.”

Peter looked away. “You’re not wrong, you know. It is a high risk sport. I’ve been lucky, but it’s possible that someday, I might not be.”

“And if that happens, I want to be there,” Neal said, as fiercely as he knew how. “I can’t imagine how I’d feel if something happened to you and I _couldn’t_ be there. The rest of it, I’ll deal with.”

Peter pulled Neal closer, holding him tight against his chest. Neal pressed his face to Peter’s shoulder and just breathed. “If it ever gets to be too much, talk to me, all right? I don’t want you to feel like you just have to bury it all. We’ll work it out, even if it means you don’t watch my games.”

“I want to watch your games,” Neal replied. Peter gave him a doubtful look. “ _Theoretically_ , I want to watch your games,” Neal amended. “Especially the one you’re playing tomorrow.”

“It’s probably going to be rough,” Peter warned him. “With the gold medal at stake, no one’s going to be pulling their punches. Literally, in some cases.”

“I’ll deal with it,” Neal said firmly. He might not love it, but he’d deal with it. If he had to, he’d leave and find a quiet place to freak out, but he was not going to miss Peter playing for gold. 

Neal didn’t know how long the two of them stood there holding each other. Neither of them spoke; Neal thought they might both have more to say later, but for now, it was enough to breathe each other in. Neal couldn’t believe he’d almost given this up. 

At last Peter pulled away. “Speaking of the game, I need to sleep.”

Neal nodded. “I can go, but if you want” - he hesitated - “I could stay. But only if you want,” he added hastily. “If it’s going to mess with your routine or make it harder for you to sleep -”

“Stay,” Peter said, softly. “Jones won’t be back - he was going out with the women’s team, then crashing at Diana’s.”

“Are you sure?” Neal asked. 

Peter’s eyes caught and held Neal’s, and Neal held his breath. 

“Yeah,” Peter said at last. “I’m sure.” 

He bent his head, lips catching Neal’s. There was a moment of stillness, where Neal thought each of them was holding their breath, and then he pushed up, closing the tiny gap that was left between them, pressing his mouth against Peter’s until Peter opened to him. Neal slid his hand through the short hair at the nape of Peter’s neck, where he knew Peter liked to be touched; Peter made a small sound in the back of his throat and pulled Neal closer, pressing his hand in at the base of Neal’s spine.

“I’m sorry,” Neal said again, when they finally came up for air. 

Peter shook his head. He pressed his lips to Neal’s again, then let their foreheads rest together. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t, don’t. I’m just glad you’re here now.”


	6. Chapter 6

Peter didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, even with Neal beside him. But he’d had years of practice training himself to sleep even when he was worked up about a game. He’d managed to nap before the Stanley Cup Final the year before, and this wasn’t worse than that. Though there were probably going to be a lot more people watching this game, and he had just a little added pressure, knowing that he was going to officially come out at the press conference afterward.

All right, so it was worse. 

It was enough to keep him awake for longer than he wanted, hyperaware of Neal beside him. But Neal, who could probably feel the tension thrumming through his body, curled up around him and stroked his hair until he felt his eyes getting heavy. 

He still had a gold medal game to play. Phil Kramer was still trying to make his life a living hell. He was still about to get thrown into a media circus, the likes of which he’d never known. But _everything_ was so much better now than it had been an hour ago. He was probably an idiot to try again with Neal, but he had to. If Neal was willing to be brave, then he was, too. 

Peter was mostly awake already when the alarm went off, drifting just on the edge of sleep. Neal must not have been, though; Peter felt him startle at the noise. Peter reached over and turned it off, then lay still. Even though they’d pushed the two beds together, he and Neal had somehow gotten wedged onto his bed. It wasn’t particularly comfortable now that they were awake, but Peter didn’t want to move for fear of losing the warmth and intimacy and comfort. 

“You ready?” Neal finally asked, lips brushing the back of Peter’s neck. 

“For the game? Yes. For the rest of it?” Peter sighed. “As ready as I can be, I guess. Though I suppose I can’t put off looking at the article any longer.”

“I’m surprised you put it off this long.”

Peter shrugged. “El told me to stay off social media, so I have been. And - well, I kept putting it off. I didn’t really want to know what it said, and I didn’t particularly want to see any pictures of us.”

“Well,” Neal said, and reached across Peter for his own phone on the nightstand. Peter frowned, but then realized what Neal was doing when he opened up the browser on his phone. “I haven’t seen it either, so we might as well be mortified together.”

Peter chuckled despite himself. He had a few minutes before he absolutely had to get up, so he got a bit more comfortable and watched Neal. After a moment of waiting for it to load, Neal gave a small snort of amusement. 

“What?” 

“The headline is ‘Big Gay Love at the Olympics,’” Neal said, grinning. “Hey, it only takes them three paragraphs to mention that I won a silver medal.”

“Have you gotten to the photos yet?” Peter asked, sitting up to peer over Neal’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, they ran a bunch. But not all of them are the leaked photos. They’ve got the one of us from Diana’s game again - with a caption about how they should have known from how ‘besotted’ I look” - Neal grimaced - “and a couple others. One really horrible one of me from after my short when I’d just found out you’d gotten hurt. Ugh, I don’t want to ever look at that photo again.”

“But the photos Kramer leaked -”

“Yeah, these.” Neal stopped scrolling so that Peter could see. They were grainy and blurred - clearly taken in a dark room with a lousy camera phone - but they were unmistakably the two of them, kissing. From what they were wearing, Peter knew he’d guessed right: they’d been taken at the bar after the pairs freeskate, when he’d been drunk, careless, and handsy. He’d felt overly safe, believing that everyone in the room was team. 

“Right,” Peter said, and sighed. He slumped against the headboard, letting Neal go back to scrolling through the article. 

“The article itself isn’t bad,” Neal said at last. “There’s some trade speculation, but the writer also says the Sabres would be incredibly stupid to trade you.”

“They do?” Peter said. Support from _Deadspin_ was not something he’d counted on.

“Yup. Apparently you are an ‘invaluable asset to the team.’”

“ _Deadspin_ said that?”

“Yup. Well, it’s couched in a lot of snark about how bad the Sabres have been this season without you.”

Peter snorted. “You know what? Under these circumstances, I’ll take it.” Neal grinned and set his phone aside again, rolling onto his stomach to rest his chin on Peter’s chest and look up at him. “That wasn’t so bad,” Peter said. 

“It wasn’t,” Neal said. “You should still get used to the phrase, ‘I’m not homophobic, but.’ I heard it a lot.”

Peter sighed, running a hand through Neal’s hair. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Neal shrugged. “It was a learning experience. And you have El on your side. That counts for a lot.”

“ _We_ have El on our side,” Peter corrected. “And yeah, it does.” He glanced at the bedside clock. “I have to get going. The game starts at three, but El arranged for me to go separately from the rest of the team to try and avoid the media beforehand. She’s put a moratorium on any questions about us until afterward, but neither of us really trusts them to stick with that.”

Neal nodded. “You had tickets for me and Sara, right? Do you mind if she still comes with me?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Peter said, sitting up on the edge of the bed. “Are you sure -”

“Yes,” Neal said, in a firm, _don’t question it_ tone. “I am.”

“Okay. Um, just to warn you, the tickets are with my family. I’m going to text them to let them know things have changed, but they might sort of -”

“Hate me?” Neal supplied wryly. 

“Interrogate you,” Peter corrected. “Sorry in advance. I’ll tell them you’ll be there and that they should play nice, but. Well.” 

Neal shrugged. “I deserve whatever they dish out.”

Peter frowned. “Neal.”

Neal shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, hey, listen to me,” Peter said, grabbing Neal’s hand. “You were upset and afraid. It happens. The chances of us getting through this without at least one major freak-out were pretty damn low.”

Neal sighed. “I could have chosen my moment better.”

“Maybe,” Peter said, “but all that matters to me now is that you came back. That took a lot.”

“No more than it took you to take me back,” Neal said, pulling Peter close. “Anyway, I’ll be fine with your family. Any chance I can ride up with you?”

Peter wanted nothing more. “You’ll be waiting around forever before the game starts,” he warned Neal. 

Neal linked his fingers with Peter’s. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Unable to put it off any longer, Peter got up to shower and put on his usual game day suit. He dressed quickly, while Neal sat on the bed, watching, until it came time for him to do the tie. Then Neal stood and held his hands out. Peter nodded, standing still and lifting his chin. He wondered if this would become a ritual for them; he didn’t have that many game day rituals, compared to other people he knew, but he liked the idea of Neal knotting his lucky tie for him on game days. 

Neal pulled the tie from around his neck and swapped it for another one. 

“What are you doing?” Peter asked. “That’s my lucky tie.”

Neal raised an eyebrow. “Is it, Peter?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Hockey players are very superstitious, as a group,” he informed Neal. “You should be glad it’s just a lucky tie. I know someone who has a lucky jock strap he never washes.”

Neal blinked. “That’s horrifying. But so is this tie, Peter. It’s ugly and it’s going to bleed on TV. Consider this your new lucky tie.” He held one up. Peter had to admit that objectively, it was a much nicer tie. But it wasn’t his lucky one. 

“If we lose today -”

“- it’s not going to have anything to do with your tie,” Neal said, looping the tie around his neck. “Also, while we’re talking about wardrobe, I have to ask. You make fifty times what I do in a good year, and you couldn’t get that suit tailored?”

“I like this suit,” Peter said, looking down at himself. “It’s a classic. Especially when paired with my lucky tie,” he added pointedly

Neal sighed, long-suffering. “I can see that improving your wardrobe is going to be a longterm project. Look.” He turned Peter around to face the mirror. “Much better. Now when you give your press conference after the game, people will be able to hear you over your tie.”

Peter rolled his eyes, but he had to admit that the tie did look much nicer. All things considered, anything that cut down on the amount of snarky remarks the major hockey blogs could aim in his direction was probably a good thing. 

Neither of them said much on the ride up to the stadium. Peter breathed quietly, trying to get centered, calm, focused. Neal didn’t try to talk to him, but his silent presence in the car was enough to put Peter more at ease. His world was right in a way it hadn’t been in days. No matter what happened to day, Neal was his, and no one, not even Phil Kramer, could take that away from him. 

He’d arranged to meet Elizabeth at one of the more discreet back entrances to the stadium. She was there waiting when the car pulled up. She raised her eyebrows when she saw Neal climb out of the car, but she was nothing if not a consummate professional. All she said was, “Good afternoon, you two. How you are feeling, Peter?”

Peter glanced at Neal. “Good. Great, actually.”

Her eyebrows lowered, but her smile turned a little wry. “I’m glad to hear it. Neal, how are you?”

“I’m fine, Elizabeth, thanks,” Neal said, actually looking a little shy. 

She nodded, smiling. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Do you have a publicist?” Neal shook his head. “Well, you’ve got me now.”

“El, I can’t afford you.”

“Fortunately, you don’t have to - I come with Peter.” She smiled at Peter, and Peter relaxed, just a fraction. He hadn’t been lying - he really did feel great. But he felt a lot better for having her there, helping him through this step by step. 

“Would you mind taking Neal around the back way so he doesn’t run into any press?” Peter asked.

“Sure,” Elizabeth said. “That’ll give us the chance to talk strategy for after the game.”

Neal frowned. “I want to be standing next to Peter when he makes the announcement.”

“We’ll see,” Elizabeth said. “Logistically, that might not be possible. Peter, I’ve emailed you a few things - talking points, phrasing, that sort of thing. Take a look at it when you get the chance.” Peter nodded. “And there’s one more thing.”

Something in her voice worried Peter. “What?”

“Phil Kramer is here and he wants a meeting. I tried to put him off, but he was insistent. He managed to get in the building early, and into the restricted area downstairs. Not sure how, but you know Kramer.”

Peter let out a long breath. He should have known something like that was coming. There was no way Phil could leave this alone. He had to make sure Peter knew he’d won. Even if, in Peter’s mind, he really hadn’t. “Yeah, I do. He either knew someone or bribed someone.”

“Should I come with you?” Neal asked, frowning. 

“No,” Peter said. “This is between me and Phil. But I’ll see you soon, all right?” He pulled Neal in for a quick kiss before turning him over to Elizabeth. “Thanks, El.”

El nodded. “Good luck.”

Peter hoisted his equipment bag and headed off. Kramer would be downstairs, lurking by the locker rooms, waiting for him. But even Kramer couldn’t ruin this moment for him. He’d done his worst, and Peter was still standing. And he would still be standing at the end of it, and maybe even better off - able to live as who he really was, able to serve as an icon for fair play for those who would come after him, able to love Neal and not have to hide it.

Kramer was waiting for Peter in the hallway outside the locker room, just as Peter had expected. The other players would start showing up in the next half hour or so, but in the meantime, the area was mostly deserted. 

“Pete,” Kramer said. 

“Mr. Kramer,” Peter returned, careful to keep his back straight and his head up. “Elizabeth said you wanted a word with me before the game.”

“Yes, I did. I wanted to speak to you about all this . . . unpleasantness.”

“You mean the photos on _Deadspin_ ,” Peter said, wondering why Kramer was always so reluctant to call a spade a spade. 

Kramer grimaced, as though he’d smelled something bad. “Yes, I do. But perhaps we should go somewhere a bit less public for this discussion.”

“Sure,” Peter said. “But I don’t have much time.”

“Don’t worry,” Kramer said, smiling in that oily way he had. “I won’t keep you from the game.”

Still carrying his equipment bag, Peter followed Kramer down the hallway and into one of the rooms the trainers had been using. It might’ve even been the same room they’d taken Peter to after he’d been hurt in the game against the Czech Republic, though he couldn’t quite recall; his memories of the time immediately after the hit were blurry. No one was there at the moment, and Kramer closed the door behind Peter. Peter set his bag down on the exam table. 

“So,” Kramer said, seating himself in one of the chairs. Peter followed suit, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back, trying to project a sense of ease that he didn’t quite feel. “You’ve made quite the splash the last few days.”

Peter shrugged, refusing to apologize. “Not by choice, I hope you realize.”

“Yes, indeed,” Kramer said. “Though Ms. Mitchell tells me you don’t intend to deny the veracity of the photos.”

“No, sir, I don’t. I’m gay. It’s me in those photos, and I’m in a relationship with Neal Caffrey. I don’t care to lie about any of that. But I don’t think this all comes as a huge surprise,” he added, more daring than usual. 

Kramer frowned. “More than I would have liked. In fact, I get the impression that Ms. Mitchell was considerably more well-informed than I was myself.”

“Well, she is responsible for managing the team’s reputation,” Peter pointed out. “If anyone needed to know, it would be her.”

“True, true,” Kramer said, in a measured tone. “Still, I would have liked to hear it from you first.”

Peter managed not to roll his eyes at Kramer’s quasi-paternal, _I’m disappointed in you, son_ tone. “As you can imagine, the last few days have been rather busy.” 

“Hmm, yes. I must say, you’re awfully calm about this. I’d think you’d be very upset about the notion of your reputation being dragged through the mud.”

Peter frowned. “It’s not being dragged through the mud. I really am gay, sir. And even if I weren’t, there are a hell of lot worse things that people could say.”

Kramer looked impatient. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Peter replied, deciding that to be deliberately difficult. “As you yourself pointed out recently, I’ve made a lot of personal sacrifices to get where I am. It was hard, being in the closet. I didn’t enjoy it, but it seemed like the path of least resistance, and there was no reason for me to come out. Until now. Besides, the world has changed,” he added, offering what he hoped was a wholesome, innocent smile. “It’s not the way it was ten or even five years ago. I’m sure I can count on support from the team.”

Kramer’s smile dipped a little. “Yes, of course. But Buffalo isn’t New York City, you know. And hockey isn’t _figure skating_ ,” he added with a sneer.

“No, it isn’t,” Peter agreed, as amiably as possible. “But maybe we could learn a thing or two from them.”

Kramer snorted. “I doubt it, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.” Kramer paused, eyeing Peter carefully for a long moment. “We will stand behind you as much as we can,” he said at last.” But you know,” he sighed regretfully, “the story has to be the team and our Cup run. If this causes a distraction - well, it might be time to shake things up. Nothing personal, of course.”

“Of course,” Peter said dryly. “That would be a shame. I’ll keep it in mind. But at this point, I’m afraid the cat is out of the bag, and there isn’t much point in trying to stuff it back in. What’s done is done.”

“I suppose so,” Kramer said. He rose, and Peter followed suit. “I assume you’ll be speaking to the press after the game?”

“Yes, sir. Elizabeth has worked with me on my remarks.”

“Good, good.” Kramer smiled. “I look forward to seeing what you have to say.” He held his hand out. “Good luck out there today.”

“Thank you, sir,” Peter said, and shook his hand. He resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his suit pants afterward. 

By the time Peter came out of the trainers’ room, his teammates had started to arrive. Peter headed down the hall and found Elizabeth waiting for him outside the locker room. 

“Well?” she said. 

Peter shrugged. “Nothing we hadn’t expected. He threatened to ‘shake things up’ if this caused too much of a distraction.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Only if he wants half of Buffalo throwing rocks through his windows.”

“Unless he makes it seem like it’s my fault.” Peter glanced around cautiously, but though he could hear people in the locker room, there was no one in the hallway. “If he made it look like I was asking for too much money, and _that_ was the reason . . .”

Elizabeth pursed her lips. “What a snake. Don’t worry. I’m better at this than he is.”

“You are the best,” Peter agreed with a smile. “I’d better get changed, though.”

“You do that,” El said. “Make sure you take a couple minutes to look at the remarks I gave you.” Peter nodded and turned to head into the locker room. “Oh, and Peter? Good luck out there. Do us proud.”

Peter nodded, gave her a mock salute, and headed inside. He was glad she hadn’t pointed out that coming out after the game would be a lot easier if they won gold. Coming out while everyone was excited about winning would be a lot easier than coming out while trying to account for the loss. But there wasn’t a damn thing Peter could do about that besides play his heart out. 

The atmosphere inside the locker room was tense, but no worse, Peter thought, than before any big game. He saw a couple of guys, who must not’ve already known about him and Neal, stop and stare as he came in. He stared back, briefly, and they put their heads back down and got on with getting dressed for the game. Peter dropped his bag in the stall next to Jones’s and slumped down on the seat. “Hey,” he said, feeling as though he’d already played a full shift on the ice.

“Hey,” Jones said. He was half-dressed already in his Under Armour but without any pads. “How’s it going?”

“It’s going,” Peter said. “Better, actually.”

“Yeah?” Jones asid.

“Yeah,” Peter said with the smallest of smiles. 

Jones gave him a broad grin in reply. “That’s great, Peter. Does it make it all worth it?”

“I hope so,” Peter said. He glanced around. “I just had a meeting with Kramer. We did the usual song and dance.” Jones grimaced; he knew what Kramer could be like. “Have you found any more about who -”

Jones shook his head. “No, man. And I have to say,” he added in a hushed voice, “I don’t think it was anyone here.”

Peter glanced across to where Jim Roberts was taking a break from dressing to get into a shoving match with the guy in the stall next to him - the sort of friendly horseplay Peter had always had to think twice about and probably wouldn’t do at all anymore. “Even -”

“Nope,” Jones said. “I don’t think so.”

“So - what? You think Kramer had me followed?”

Jones shrugged. “Would you put it past him? I wouldn’t. There were other people in the bar that night. He could’ve paid one of the waiters or one of the bartenders. I bought a woman a drink and couldn’t tell you anything about her except that her name was Lisa.” Jones leaned in. “And even if it was one of the guys, do you really want to know _now_?”

Peter didn’t answer immediately. On the one hand, if there was a guy in the room who didn’t have his back, he did kind of want to know. But on the other hand, Jones was right. He’d have to play with whoever it was regardless, and so it was probably better not to know. He’d just have to trust that even if someone on the team had sold him out to Kramer, he wanted a gold medal badly enough to play his best, even if he was on Peter’s own line. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good. Now c’mon, get dressed,” Jones said, pulling on his own pads. “We’ve got a gold medal to win.”

Peter looked up and him and grinned. “Damn right we do.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jones said. He reached down to grip Peter’s hand and pull him up. But then he didn’t let go. “Hey,” he said, and pulled Peter in for a hug. “I’m proud to be your friend.”

Peter’s throat felt suddenly tight. “Thanks, Jones. I’m proud to be yours, too.” He thumped Jones on the back once and pulled away. “Now let’s -”

“- get it done,” Jones finished with a grin. “Hell yeah. Game _on_.”

Despite what he’d said to Peter, Neal’s stomach was a mess of butterflies as he climbed the stands to his seat. He didn’t know what he was more nervous about: the game, which promised to be very rough; seeing Peter’s family, which might be _worse_ ; or what was going to happen afterward. About that, at least, Elizabeth had been reassuring. He probably wouldn’t be able to get to Peter fast enough to be standing next to him when he got the first question, but she’d make sure he was in the back of the room where Peter could see him.

“And of course I’m going to set up a joint interview for the two of you as quickly as possible,” she’d added. “Not before the end of the games, since closing ceremonies are tomorrow, but pretty much the minute we’re back in Buffalo. There’s a local reporter Peter really likes, I thought we’d use her.”

“Sure,” Neal had said. “Whatever you think is best. I just - I don’t want this to ruin anything for Peter.”

Elizabeth had turned and looked at him then, frowning. “Neal, I don’t know what happened between you and Peter the last couple of days. But you need to trust Peter to take care of himself, and you need to trust _me_ to take care of both of you. This isn’t like when you were outed. You’re not on your own here.”

“I know,” Neal had said, looking away. “And I’m glad. I’m glad Peter’s team has his back and so do you.”

She’d nodded. “Good. That having been said, hurt him again and -”

“- there’ll be nowhere I can hide from you?” Neal had suggested wryly. “Diana already gave me that speech.”

Elizabeth smiled. “I knew I liked her. But no. I was going to say, hurt him again and I will create problems for you that you’ve never even heard of.” She’d reached out and thumped him on the arm. “Your seats are just down that aisle. Enjoy the game, I’ll see you after!”

The stands were just starting to fill when Neal finally found his seat, but no one Neal knew was there yet. He was glad for the chance to sit quietly, watching the teams take the ice for warm-ups. He spotted Peter by his number on the ice, running drills with a couple of guys. It was hard to tell from this distance, but Neal thought he looked relatively relaxed. Peter had been nervous about the game; it was indeed Canada they were playing, just as Peter had predicted, and it was also his first game as an officially “out” player. But Neal knew from experience how calming it could be to feel the ice under your skates. 

He’d been sitting there for maybe twenty minutes when Sara showed up, sliding into the seat beside him. Neal couldn’t help sighing in relief when she hugged him. “I was surprised to get your text,” she said. “I thought for sure this was off. You and Peter must’ve had a good talk?”

Neal nodded. “We did.”

“What changed?”

Neal shrugged. “My perspective, mostly.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So you’re okay watching him play now?”

“I’m . . . well, no, not really,” Neal admitted. “But I’m going to do it anyway. If I really can’t handle it - well, he and I will deal with it. But I’m really glad you’re here.”

She reached over and took his hand. “Me too.”

He was even gladder a few minutes later when Peter’s family arrived, and Diana with them. Diana eyed Neal for a moment, before giving him a curt nod and coming to sit on the other side of Sara. Neal let go of the breath he’d been holding, feeling as though he’d somehow passed muster. 

But there was still Peter’s family to face. He stood up for that, smiling nervously. But all Peter’s mother said was, “It’s so good to see you, Neal.” 

To Neal’s surprise, she hugged him. After a few seconds of standing there awkwardly, he patted her on the back. “It’s good to see you, too.” 

“Yes, good to see you,” Neal’s dad said, shaking his hand and taking his seat. 

That left Neal facing Peter’s sister Helena, who crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at him. Abruptly she turned to Diana. “If he hurts Peter again, you’ll kick his ass, right?”

“Yup,” Diana said, without glancing away from the ice. 

“Can I watch?”

The corners of Diana’s mouth quirked upwards. “Sure.”

“Okay. Good to see you, Neal,” she said, and punched him on the arm as she slid past him to take her seat. 

“I think that’s the fourth shovel speech I’ve had today,” Neal muttered to Sara as he sat back down. He rubbed his arm. Helena had managed to get him in the exact same spot Elizabeth had.

Sara patted Neal on the knee. “Poor baby. On the other hand, I think Moz gave Peter a very similar speech before you’d even started dating.”

Neal winced. “True.” And of everyone in their lives, Moz was probably the scariest. But damn, Diana came a close second. 

Neal’s nerves did not get better as the stands filled around them. If anything, without the distraction of worrying about seeing Peter’s family again, they got worse. The Jumbotron in the center of the stadium was showing highlights from the rest of the tournament, and _that_ wasn’t helping either. 

He couldn’t sit here like this for the next two hours, Neal thought. He’d go crazy. He needed a distraction. 

“Hey,” Neal said to Sara. “Switch seats with me?”

“Uh,” Sara said, glancing over at Diana. “You sure?”

“Yes,” Neal said firmly. Sara shrugged and stood up, allowing Neal to sidle past her. He sat down next to Diana. “Hi.” 

“Hello,” she said, raising an eyebrow at him. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” Neal said, ignoring her sarcasm. “I need you to explain hockey to me.”

The eyebrow went up even further. “It’s not rocket science.”

“I know,” Neal said. “I mean, I get the basics, but I’m sure there’s a lot I don’t understand. And I’d like to.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re freaking out, aren’t you?”

“Little bit,” Neal admitted. She looked skeptical. “Look, I’m trying really hard here, all right? But I don’t understand the game very well, so mostly it looks like a lot of people shoving each other around on skates.”

Diana sighed. “Caffrey, understanding the game isn’t going to make it less violent. If it bothers you so much, maybe you just shouldn’t watch Peter play.”

“Maybe, but I’d like to give this a try first. Peter deserves to have a partner who can come to his games. So, please. I’m asking you for help.”

Diana rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. I will explain the game to you. As a favor to _Peter_ , mind you.”

“Thank you,” Neal said, with as much sincerity as he could muster. Diana looked unimpressed. 

The excitement in the stadium built as they got closer to the start of the game ( _”Puck drop, Caffrey. In basketball it’s tip-off, in hockey it’s puck drop”_ ). The crowd was a sea of Canadian red and white and American red, white, and blue, and anticipation was thick in the air. Canada had won gold four years ago, Diana explained, and they took their hockey _very_ seriously. She kept up an easy patter on each of the players and their positions as the warm-up ran down. Neal resisted the urge to take notes and tried to relax into the sound of her voice, even as the starting lines gathered on the ice. 

The puck dropped, and they were off. 

Peter had warned Neal that with Olympic gold on the line, it was going to be rough game, and so it was from the second the puck hit the ice. Neal resolutely did not watch through his fingers, but he was grateful for Sara on one side of him, arm linked through his, and Diana on the other, providing him with a running commentary. Neal tracked Peter when he was on the ice, flinching whenever he got shoved up against the boards. But he always bounced back. 

The first period ended scoreless. But Canada had more shots on goal, Diana said, so the U.S. was going to have to step it up. 

“Are you okay?” Sara asked him during intermission, after Diana and Peter’s family had excused themselves to go investigate the concession options. “There were a few times I thought you might break my fingers.”

Neal looked at down at the their hands, and saw that his knuckles were white. “Sorry,” he muttered, consciously relaxing his grip. “I’m okay.” She clearly didn’t believe him, but since Neal wasn’t sure he believed himself, that wasn’t all that surprising. “Hey, how are things going with you and Jones?” he asked, before she could decide to probe any further. “I’ve been so wrapped up in my own stuff, I haven’t even asked.”

Sara shrugged. “We’ve seen each other a few times. But he’s been really busy, and neither of us has had a whole lot of privacy the last couple of weeks. I think we’re sort of in a holding pattern until we get back to Buffalo. But I’m pretty sure we’ll see each other then.”

Neal nodded. “And you don’t - it doesn’t bother you to watch him play?”

She shook her head. “I like it, actually. I think it’s kind of hot.”

“Hot,” Neal said disbelievingly. “Really?” Sara shrugged. Neal frowned, wondering if he would ever be able to think of it that way. He supposed he could sort of see it, objectively-speaking, but mostly it made him anxious. And anxiety, in nearly any circumstance, was a mood-killer.

“Hey, by the way,” Sara said. She pulled something out of her pocket - a hotel keycard, it looked like - and held it up between two fingers. “People are starting to head home, and the hotel June and I are staying at had a few rooms come available. I took the liberty of booking you one.”

Neal raised his eyebrows. “When?”

“This afternoon, after you went to see Peter. I figured I could always use it myself if you ended up not wanting it. So.” She waved it around. “Do you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Neal said fervently, taking it from her. “Thank you. I owe you one for this.”

Sara smiled. “I’ll add it to your tab.”

Neal pocketed the card carefully. Diana and Peter’s family returned then, sodas in hand, just in time for the second period to start. 

The second period was, if anything, even more intense than the first. Diana completely forgot to explain anything and spent more time on her feet shouting at the refs than she did in her seat. Neal did his best to follow, but the play was so fast that it was almost nothing but a blur to his untrained eye. 

The goal that Canada scored about three minutes in was unmistakable, though. Neal felt his heart sink. With the way both teams had been playing, that might be it. 

“No way,” Diana said, when Neal voiced this opinion. “They’re not going to let that go unanswered, just you wait and see.”

She was right. Five minutes later, the U.S. scored. Neal jumped to his feet with everyone else in their section. He hugged Sara, and then, to his surprise, Diana hugged _him_ , screaming in his ear the whole time. The player who’d scored was swarmed by his teammates on the ice, and Neal had to admit that this was all unexpectedly moving. He hadn’t really expected to get emotionally invested in the game, beyond wanting Peter to win and be happy, but somehow, he had. 

“I can do this,” he said aloud.

“What?” Diana said, shouting to be heard over all the screaming. 

“I think I can do this!” Neal said, grinning. She slugged him on the arm and shoved him back into his seat. 

He should’ve known better than to get complacent. So far the game had been rough but clean, with no really bad penalties. There were a couple players on both teams, Diana had explained to him, who sometimes took stupid penalties, but they’d been keeping themselves in check so far. But with about eight minutes to go in the second period, Peter got slammed up against the board by a Canadian player who looked like he had six inches and about fifty pounds on him. 

It was a bad hit. Even from where Neal was sitting, he could tell it was a bad hit. Peter had been looking the other direction and completely unprepared for it. He went down hard, body twisting awkwardly, and he didn’t get up right away. 

Neal’s stomach went ice cold. 

“What the _fuck_?” Diana demanded, standing up to see better. “He didn’t even have the damn _puck._ ” 

Neal didn’t answer. _Get up. Come on, Peter. Get up._

Peter sat up, and Neal was able to breathe again. He wasn’t standing yet, though. 

“That was completely illegal,” Diana muttered, falling back into her seat. “In fact I’m surprised that Jones isn’t - oh yeah, there we go.”

“What?” Neal said, finally tearing his eyes away from Peter. 

“Jones just dropped gloves and punched the guy who hit Peter,” Diana said, sounding satisfied. She pointed, and Neal looked just in time to see two of the refs shove Jones and one of the Canadian players apart. Jones looked furious, straining back toward the other player like he wanted to hit him again. The ref shoved him aside, pushing him toward the penalty box, and Jones went, still glaring daggers at the Canadian player. 

Peter got to his feet with the help of one of the trainers and skated off the ice under his own power. Just as he stepped off the ice, he glanced up toward Neal and his family offered up a rueful salute. Everyone around Neal cheered, but Neal just sat there, too relieved to move.

“Why do you do it?” he asked Diana, as the game started up again. “You know how hurt you could get. So does Peter. And yet you both go out there and do it, night after night.”

Diana shrugged. “I love playing hockey, Neal. I always have, just like I assume you’ve always loved figure skating. Which, by the way, is just as inexplicable to me. And that sort of thing, what just happened - well, it’s no one’s favorite part of the sport, but it happens. Peter will be fine, by the way,” she added. “He’ll be out there again by the end of the period, you’ll see.”

Neal nodded and forced himself to pay attention to the game. Diana was right; only a couple minutes before the end of the period, Peter came over the boards, along with Jones. “See?” Diana said, nudging him. “He’s fine.”

Neal had his doubts, but he had to admit that Peter looked fine as he raced up the ice to intercept the puck and send it back towards one of his teammates. The guy passed to Jones, who ducked around one of the Canadian players and sent the puck back toward Peter. Neal thought Peter was going to pass it back, but he took the shot. For a second, Neal wasn’t sure if it had gone in, but then Peter’s arms went up, stick held over his head, and Jones collided with him in a hug that looked almost as rough as the hit had been. 

“Now _that_ is how you do it,” Diana said grinning as the buzzer sounded for the end of the period. “Two to one. Damn right. Look happy, Caffrey, your boyfriend might have just scored the golden goal.”

“I am happy,” Neal insisted, because he was. In the shifting morass of nerves in his stomach, there was definitely happiness at seeing Peter play so well after going down like that only a couple minutes earlier. But he couldn’t shake the memory of the hit itself, and the knots in his stomach were, if anything, tighter than before. 

Diana left again at intermission came back balancing three beers rather precariously. She handed one to Sara, kept one for herself, and thrust the third one upon Neal.

Neal took it, but frowned. “I don’t really drink beer.” 

“You do tonight,” Diana told him. “C’mon, bottoms up.”

That seemed like a slippery slope to Neal. “I’m not going to start drinking to get through Peter’s games.” 

She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t suggesting you were, Caffrey, Jesus. Is he always like this?” she asked, leaning around Neal toward Sara. 

“Little bit,” Sara said, calmly sipping her own beer. “Drink your beer, Neal. The Olympics are over, Worlds aren’t for another month. It isn’t going to kill you.”

Neal made a face at her, but she just raised her eyebrows in return. He sipped his beer, watching the replays on the Jumbotron. They showed Peter’s goal, and Neal couldn’t help but smile. 

“It was a nice goal,” Diana said. “We’ll just have to see if they can maintain the lead. That’s been one of the Sabres’ big weaknesses this year,” she added, leaning back toward Neal. “They can’t maintain a lead to save their lives. If Reese Hughes could somehow hypnotise them into thinking they were always down by two goals, they’d be fine, but they get a one goal lead and the whole game falls apart.”

“Sounds like they really need Peter back,” Neal said. 

“They really do. Everyone knows it, too - they’re on shaky ground when it comes to a playoff spot.”

“So why do you think Kramer chose now to mess with him?”

“Because he’s a vindictive SOB, that’s why,” Diana replied darkly. “Remember that, Neal. He’s been holding onto a grudge against Peter for over a year, biding his time to make his move. Thanks to Elizabeth, it’s not going to work - _this_ time. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to start loving Peter. Or you.”

“So you’re saying that as long as Peter plays in Buffalo, he’s going to have to be looking over his shoulder.”

Diana sighed. “Not necessarily. Kramer and Peter haven’t really gotten along for years, and Kramer might feel he’s done enough damage by outing him to get even for Peter being a pain in his ass during the lockout. But he’ll have to be careful, especially as Peter gets close to the end of his career.”

Neal nodded. “Thanks. That’s good information to have.”

Diana shrugged. “I’m on Peter’s team, Caffrey. That means I’m on your team, too. Now shut up, third period’s starting.”

It was clear even to Neal that Canada was not messing around. They were down two to one going into the third period, but it only took them about a minute and a half to tie it up. Diana swore and drained her beer. Neal leaned forward, the better to see what was happening on the ice. The hotel room key Sara had given him was burning a hole in his pocket, and he wanted their night there to be a celebration, not a consolation prize. 

The U.S. scored five minutes later, and Neal held his breath, hoping that would be it. It seemed like it might be, too; despite Canada managing to keep the puck in the U.S.’s defensive zone for most of the rest of the period, they didn’t score again. With thirty seconds to go, Neal started to relax. 

And then Canada scored. It wasn’t an elegant goal; there was a scuffle over the puck by the goal cage and somehow someone managed to nudge it in over the line. Diana called it “dirty.” But it was enough. 

“Overtime,” Diana said once the buzzer had sounded. “Now they play until one of them scores.” She looked at Neal. “You managing to enjoy yourself at all?”

Neal shrugged. “I like rooting for Peter. I don’t like seeing him get checked. That hasn’t changed in the last two hours. But I’m here, and I think I can keep being here.”

“Good,” Diana said. She stood up again. “Either of you want more beer?” she asked Neal and Sara.

“No, thanks,” Neal said. He still had half of his left.

Sara shook her head but stood. “I’ll come with you. I need to find the bathroom.” She ruffled Neal’s hair on the way by. 

That left Neal sitting with Peter’s family. He thought about getting his phone out and pretending to be busy, to avoid having to talk to them at all, but that seemed both cowardly and rude. Besides, of all of them, he thought the only one he really had to worry about was Helena, and she _was_ on her phone. 

“Um,” Neal said, clearing his throat. “I just wanted to say - I’m sorry about the whole media circus that’s about to happen to you. I’m sure it was kind of a surprise.”

Helena snorted without looking up. “Really? _That’s_ the part you’re sorry about?”

“No,” Neal said, honestly. “But the rest of it’s between me and Peter, and I’ve already apologized.” His tone was just sharp enough that she looked up from her phone, but he was careful not to sound too reproachful. “But I am sorry that things are about to get complicated for all of you.”

Peter’s mom and dad exchanged a glance. Neal couldn’t read it at all, and he was reminded, not for the first time, of how different the two of them were from his own parents. Well, from his mom; he hadn’t seen his dad in years, but that, in and of itself, spoke volumes. “There’s no need to apologize,” Peter’s mom said at last. “We’ve been preparing for this for a long time, much longer than you’ve known Peter. I always hoped the day would come - not exactly like this, mind you, but I’d hoped that Peter would find someone worth coming out for.”

“We’ll be fine,” Peter’s dad added. “You just worry about yourself and Peter.”

Neal nodded. “I will. I do. I’ll be with him every step of the way.” He looked Peter’s mom in the eye as he said it. He meant every word; whatever happened from here on out, good or bad, he wanted to go through it with Peter. Even if it meant training somewhere other than Buffalo, though he hoped it didn’t come to that. Buffalo might not be a bustling metropolis, but there were hockey teams in some really godforsaken places. Winnipeg might’ve been objectively the worst, but no amount of gel was going to tame Neal’s hair if they ended up in Florida.

Diana and Sara returned not long after, Diana with beers for herself and Peter’s dad in hand. They took their seats just as the teams took to the ice. Diana sat forward. “Come on, guys,” she muttered. “You have this.”

For the first three minutes, it really didn’t look like they did. Neal didn’t know whether it was nerves or what, but even he could tell that the U.S. was all over the ice, scrambling to keep up with Canada. Canada made three shots on goal in rapid succession, and only the quick hands of the U.S. goalie kept them from going through. Beside Neal, Diana groaned and gulped her beer. 

Fortunately, that seemed to wake the U.S. up. There was a quick change in players - a line change, Diana had called it earlier - and suddenly it looked like a different game out there. Neal watched, biting his lip, as Peter intercepted the puck from one of the Canadian players and sent it down the ice toward one of his teammates. That guy passed it to Jones, who broke away from the Canadian player pursuing in, put on an extra burst of speed, and took the shot. 

Straight into the net. 

Diana jumped to her feet, and Neal was suddenly covered in beer. He barely noticed; half the arena was on its feet, screaming, as the rest of the team swarmed onto the ice. Neal hugged Sara and then turned to Diana, who hugged him hard, screaming in his ear and probably spilling more beer on him. 

It took a long time for the jubilant chaos on the ice to resolve itself into anything resembling a medal ceremony. Neal thought about getting up and making his way downstairs then, so as to beat the crowd, but in the end, sentiment won out over pragmatics. If he missed Peter receiving his gold medal, he knew he’d regret it for years. 

Even from where he was, he could see Peter beaming as the medals were handed out. He was standing with his arm slung around Jones’s shoulders. Neal had been in such a fog after his freeskate that he wasn’t sure he’d have remembered anything if they’d done the ceremony then. But there was something special about doing it right away, in the moment. The stadium fell quiet as the flags were raised and the U.S. national anthem was played. 

To Neal’s right, Diana sniffled. 

Neal froze, wondering if he dare let on that he’d heard. It would probably be better if he didn’t, he thought, but in the end, he couldn’t resist. Neal pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to her. She blinked at it incredulously before swiping it out of his hand. “Tell anyone and I’ll kill you,” she muttered, using it to dab at her eyes. 

“Mum’s the word,” Neal said, tempering his grin out of self-preservation. 

As soon as the ceremony was over, Neal started fighting to get down from the stands. Peter would be facing the press almost immediately, and Neal had promised him he’d be there - in the back of the room, if not at his side. But everyone else was trying to leave, too, and no one was getting anywhere very quickly. Elizabeth had told him how to get to the press room, but she needed to be in the room with Peter, so Neal was on his own. 

“Hey, Caffrey,” Diana said, grabbing him by the elbow. “This way.” She pulled him away from the crowd, through a door marked _Authorized Personnel Only_ and down a mostly deserted hallway. 

“You did good up there,” she said as they walked. “There was only that one moment when I thought I might have to force your head down and tell you to breathe.”

“Thanks,” Neal said dryly. “Maybe if I keep watching, eventually there won’t be any moments like that.” He hoped so, for the sake of his sanity, but he couldn’t really imagine it. 

“Maybe,” Diana said, sounding as dubious as Neal himself felt. “But even if it doesn’t, I know Peter will appreciate that you’ve made an effort. And so do I,” she added, with palpable reluctance. 

“Thanks,” Neal said. “And thanks for this - if I’d had to fight the crowd, I probably would’ve missed the whole press conference.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Diana said, and pulled him around a corner and into the room set aside for post-game press. A lot of hockey press happened in the locker room, Neal was given to understand, but Elizabeth had wanted to avoid that today. 

The room was wall-to-wall journalists, along with microphones and cameras and every conceivable piece of AV equipment. Neal couldn’t have fought his way through it to get to Peter even if he’d wanted to, and as it was, he was happy enough to slip as unobtrusively as possible into the back, pressing his back up against the wall. Diana stayed with him, her hand locked like a vice around his elbow. 

Peter was just taking his seat up at the front, gold medal still draped around his neck. He looked exhausted and sweaty, but also triumphant, and Neal was reminded that this could have been much worse: the U.S. could have _lost_ and Peter would’ve had to do this anyway. He managed to catch Peter’s eye, and Peter gave him a small smile, all the acknowledgment he could give, since neither of them wanted to call attention to Neal’s presence in the room. 

Neal remembered from when he’d worked briefly with her before that Elizabeth ran a tight ship. She clearly knew exactly who to call on to kick things off with a question about the game. It was a softball, too, just, “So, how does it feel to be an Olympic gold medalist?”

Peter’s face just about cracked in two with his grin. “I’m not gonna lie, it feels pretty amazing. Though also exhausting. Canada played an outstanding game.”

“Do you think there were any major differences between 2010 and 2014?” the same reporter asked. Neal could hear some restless shifting around him. For all that they were sports reporters, they weren’t here to talk about the game. 

“Well, obviously those of us who came back this year were more seasoned than we were in 2010. We were a pretty young team then,” Peter said. “I think that made a big difference. And some of the new guys we had with us this year played truly outstanding hockey. But” - Neal saw Peter pause, take a deep breath, and square his shoulders - “there was one other major difference this time around, one that doesn’t really have much to do with the game. Since it’s why we’re all here, I’m going to just come right out and say it: That was me with Neal Caffrey in those photos. I’m gay, and I’m in a relationship with Neal.”

A thousand flashbulbs went off at once. Peter didn’t startle, though even from the back Neal found it shocking. He waited until it was over, and then he held up his hand, forestalling any questions. “Now, obviously this is not how I wanted to come out. Whoever sold those photos took the choice away from me, and that’s not something Neal or I would wish on anyone. But I plan to make the most of being out now that I am, and so the first thing I’d like to say is this: If you can play, _you can play_.”

There was another round of flashbulbs, shockingly bright, and then a dozen reporters yelling questions at once.

_”When did you and Neal Caffrey first meet?”_

_“Are you going to make an official ‘You Can Play’ video?”_

_“Did your teammates know? Are there concerns about how this could affect the mood in the locker room?”_

_“What are your plans for when you get back to Buffalo? Do you have any worries that you might end up getting traded because of this?”_

_“How do you think this is going to affect your ability to serve as the Sabres’ captain?”_

Peter and Elizabeth had clearly anticipated all of these questions, even the stupid ones, and Peter was patient as he answered them. He and Neal had met in Buffalo while sharing a rink; he did plan to make an official ‘You Can Play,’ though possibly not until the summer, when his schedule would open up some; some of his teammates in Buffalo knew, and others had probably suspected for some time, and no, he was not concerned about the mood in the locker room; he didn’t see how this was going to affect his ability to serve as captain of the Sabres in the least. 

He saved the questions about his plans for after the Olympics and about a possible trade for the very end. He paused after the reporter repeated the question, and Neal was reminded that Peter was very, very good at this - much better than the average hockey player, Elizabeth had said. The room got quiet, and Peter took a deep breath. 

“My plans for when I get back to Buffalo are pretty simple. I’m going to get back out there with my team. I was cleared for contact right before I left for Salzburg, so it’s been a while since I last played in an NHL game, and I can’t wait to go back. It’s no secret that the Sabres have had a bumpy year, but we’re going to secure ourselves a playoff spot and we’re going to play the sort of hockey that people have come to expect from us. And I will spend as much time with Neal as much as both our schedules permit. 

“As for worrying about being traded - well, that’s always a risk in this business, and it’s not my decision. My contract’s up next year, and if the Sabres decide to let me go, then that’s their prerogative. But I will say this.” Peter leaned forward, face very serious. “I could play hockey somewhere else, but I want to play it in Buffalo. I’ve put a lot of blood and sweat into the Sabres, and I’ve believed in us every step of the way, even those first few years when we couldn’t make the playoffs to save our lives. But Buffalo is also my home, and I want to finish my career out in the city that’s given me so much - including Neal.”

It was, Neal thought, the best possible note to end on. Elizabeth must have thought so, too, because she shut down the questions right after that and let Peter leave. Diana ushered Neal out as the reporters started packing up and dragged him down the hall toward the locker room. 

They didn’t go far before they found Peter and Elizabeth, talking seriously in a deserted hallway. Peter broke off mid-sentence when he saw them, and Neal pulled him into a hug, so glad that he didn’t have worry about who might see them and completely heedless (well, mostly heedless) of the fact that he smelled like a hockey player who hadn’t had a chance to shower after his game. 

“Congratulations,” Neal said, pressing his face into the side of Peter’s neck. “You were amazing out there. And also in there,” he added, inclining his head toward the press room.

“Seriously, boss,” Diana said with a grin. “You kicked ass.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, though his smile wasn’t quite as broad as Diana’s. “We’ll just have to see if it’s enough.” 

“I think it will be,” Elizabeth said. “That bit at the end was inspired, Peter. You’ve made very clear now where you want to be, so if Kramer decides to trade you, he won’t be able to pin it on you.”

“That was the idea,” Peter said, a little grimly.

“Neal, would you mind doing a few photos with Peter?” Elizabeth asked him. “We’ll do a real photoshoot later, but it’d be nice if they had a few shots to run with the story that weren’t of Peter by himself.”

“Sure,” Neal said. “Does Peter need to change first?”

“Yes,” Peter said.

“No,” Elizabeth said.

Peter groaned. “El, I’m disgusting. My suit’s in the locker room, it’ll take me five minutes.”

“ _You_ are a triumphant American hero,” she corrected him. “You are covered in the sweat of victory and wearing your gold medal. If you think I’m giving away that advantage, you’re crazy.”

“Hear that,” Peter said to Neal, throwing an arm around his waist and pulling him close. “That’s the sweat of victory you’re smelling.”

Neal snickered. “And that’s beer you’re smelling. Diana spilled hers all over me when you guys won.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Don’t move,” she told them, and left, presumably to find a photographer. Diana went off to try and find Jones to congratulate him on scoring the game-winning goal, leaving Peter and Neal alone in the corridor.

Neal leaned into Peter. Peter tightened his arm around him. “How was the game from the stands?” Peter asked him, voice carefully light. 

Neal gave him a wry smile. “Exciting. Especially the part where you scored a goal. Though there was also the part where you went down and stayed there.”

“That’ll happen sometimes,” Peter said. “Both things. I’m okay.”

“I know,” Neal said, turning to face him. “I know. I can’t say that I enjoyed every minute of it, but I enjoyed some of it, and I got through it. And I know that _getting through it_ is not ideal, but I think it’ll have to do. For now anyway.” He hoped that would be enough. It would _have_ to be enough. 

Peter leaned in and kissed him. “I’ll take it. Thank you.”

“By the way,” Neal added, glancing down the hallway to see if El was on her way back yet, “I have a surprise.”

“A surprise?”

“Courtesy of Sara,” Neal said, and pulled the hotel keycard out of his pocket to hold up between two fingers. “A room in Sara and June’s hotel for tonight.”

For the first time since the medal ceremony, Peter’s smile looked genuine. “Really?”

“Really,” Neal said, smirking. “Just think - we’ll have a bed that isn’t a glorified bunk. Whatever will we do?”

“I can think of a few things,” Peter said, voice dropping to a register that made Neal’s toes curl. “I can think of a whole bunch of things.” 

Neal could, too, though he didn’t have any time to respond before Elizabeth returned, photographer in tow, thoroughly breaking the mood. The next few minutes were the usual awkward photo shoot dance, as Elizabeth told them where to stand and how to smile, and he and Peter did their best not to look like cardboard cutouts of themselves. “Look proud of Peter,” she told Neal. “No, not besotted, we don’t need a second picture of you looking at him like that. Just proud. Yes, like that.”

Neal honestly had no idea what had changed in his facial expression between the first shot and the second, but he wasn’t going to question Elizabeth. He did, however, exchange a wry glance with Peter behind her back.

This was what it was going to be like for a while, Neal reflected. Life was about to get more hectic than it had ever been before. There would be more photoshoots like this, and more pressers, and Phil Kramer might still be coming for them. But even in the middle of all of that, Neal promised himself that he wasn’t going to let them forget why they were putting themselves through it. Even on the worst days, they would have time for each other. Neal would make sure of it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who aided and abetted in this fic in some way! Especially Fuzzyboo, who beta'd the last half of this _really_ quickly.

Peter was not surprised but also _not happy_ to wake up to his phone buzzing on the nightstand the morning after the gold medal game. He and Neal had begged off the team’s celebration relatively early, so he was considerably less hungover than he could have been - considerably less hungover than he had been, four years ago. But he was wrapped around Neal in a bed that was actually big enough for both of them, and he really didn’t want to move.

“Don’t answer that,” Neal mumbled into his shoulder. 

“I’m not,” Peter mumbled back. The vibration stopped, mercifully, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief. He pressed his lips to the back of Neal’s neck, deciding that if he was awake earlier than he wanted to be, he might as well make the most of it. Neal shivered. Peter canted his hips forward and bit down, lightly, on the back of Neal’s neck. 

The phone started ringing again. Neal groaned. 

“I will murder whoever that is,” Peter said, shoving himself up on one hand. Especially if it was Phil Kramer.

It wasn’t; it was Elizabeth. “El, do you have any idea what time it is?” Peter asked, glaring at the bedside clock. He supposed it wasn’t actually early by most objective standards, but it was still too early. 

“Yes, I do. I got two hours of sleep last night, Peter, and it was all between the hours of three and five, do you want to have this conversation with me?”

Peter winced. “No. Also, you’re amazing, and I’d be totally screwed if it wasn’t for you.”

“Damn right.” El took a deep breath. “First things first. I’ve emailed you a judicious selection of your press clippings from last night and this morning. It’s mostly positive, and I’ve taken the liberty of eliminating the really stupid articles. Don’t Google yourself.”

“I try not to,” Peter said. 

“Good boy. The pictures look great, by the way. You two are very photogenic.”

“You mean _Neal_ is very photogenic,” Peter said, rolling over to look at Neal. He’d buried his head under the pillow. 

“You both looked great. Very happy. Moving on: I set up an interview for you both with Kara Mooring when we get back to Buffalo.”

“Oh good,” Peter said. “I like Kara.”

“So do I, and she’ll write a good piece. I’ll sit down with her ahead of time and work out what she’ll ask you, and then you and Neal and I will talk about your answers.”

“Nice and spontaneous, then?” Peter said dryly. 

“I’m not screwing around with this, Peter,” Elizabeth replied, very clipped. “Did I somehow make you think I was?”

“No, ma’am.” 

“Good, because I’m not. Now. Kramer.” Peter groaned. “Don’t even,” Elizabeth said sharply. “He’s called me about fourteen times already, which is the only reason he hasn’t called _you_. He wanted to know what kind of PR hit I thought we’d take, and I said I didn’t think we’d take much of one. You’re a popular player, and you both won medals. I told him we’d spin it as a whirlwind Olympics romance, and the fans would eat it up with a spoon.”

Peter frowned. “Did he buy that?”

El sighed. “I’m not sure. It’s true, actually - well, mostly true - but I’m not sure he believed me. I think he’s stuck in the 1980s.” She paused. “He also asked me what kind of hit he thought we’d take if you were traded.”

It was no more than Peter had expected, but it still stung to hear it. “What did you say?”

“I told him exactly what I’ve told you, four times now. You’re incredibly popular, and after the last five months, everyone knows exactly how badly we need you. I told him we’d have to hire security to keep fans from egging our offices.”

Peter sort of wished Neal was fully awake. He nudged at him with his foot, and Neal rolled toward him, pulling his head out from beneath the pillow. He was flushed and disheveled, and Peter was quietly resentful of this entire situation for preventing him from rendering Neal even more flushed and disheveled. “And?” 

“And he got very quiet. You did a good job last night, Peter. A very, very good job. You’ve turned the tables on him, and I don’t think he knows what to do.”

“Hmm.” Peter held his arm out and Neal shifted closer, tucking himself under Peter’s arm, a warm reminder of what Peter had done all this for. “Does he know you’re working with me?”

“I’m sure,” El said. “We danced around the issue the whole time, but he reminded me that my first responsibility was to the team, before any individual player.” She sucked in a breath through her teeth. “I _kindly_ did not tell him to go do unspeakable things to himself.” Peter suppressed a smile. “Anyway, I really need to get a couple more hours of sleep, but I’m sure he’ll be calling you this morning. I didn’t want him to be the one to wake you up.”

“Thank you,” Peter said. “El, really - I can’t thank you enough, for any of this. You put your ass on the line for me. I won’t forget it.”

“I know you won’t,” she said, a smile in her voice. “Text me an update when you hear from Kramer, unless it’s dire enough to call and wake me up.”

“I will. Sleep well.” Peter disconnected. 

“She hasn’t slept yet?” Neal asked, propping himself up on one elbow. 

“Not very much.” Peter laid down facing Neal. “I feel kind of guilty for taking a break while she was up all night saving my public image.”

“Well, you gave her some pretty amazing material to work with,” Neal said, reaching out to rub his thumb across Peter’s cheekbone. “In fact, I’d say you did most of the saving yourself. Have I told you recently how proud I was of you when you were up there?”

“Not in the last eight hours,” Peter said, smiling a little despite himself. 

“Hmm. I’ve been seriously remiss then.” Neal kissed him, then rolled Peter over onto his back, throwing one leg across to straddle him. Peter could feel him half-hard against his hip, rubbing a little against Peter’s own dick as he kissed Peter’s neck. Peter sucked in a breath, his arousal kicking up a notch. Then Neal was kissing down his chest, intentions loud and clear. Peter pushed himself up, shoving a pillow behind so he could see better. 

It turned out, he really liked to watch. That wasn’t something Peter had ever expected to discover about himself, but it was true. He especially liked to watch Neal like this, looking up at him through his lashes as he took Peter’s cock into his mouth. Neal was beautiful all the time, but he was especially beautiful like this. Peter was rapidly losing coordination, but he managed to brush his knuckles down Neal’s cheek, then cup his jaw in his hand. He could feel the muscles working as Neal sucked him off, and that was somehow even hotter. 

Peter’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. 

Neal’s mouth slipped off his cock with a faint _pop_. The cool air on Peter’s damp, overheated skin made him shiver. “Don’t answer that.”

Peter reached for it anyway, looked at the screen. “It’s Kramer.”

“Seriously, Peter. I’m in the middle of something here. Call him back. _Not_ from our bed.”

“It’s not our bed, it’s a hotel bed.”

“Peter.” Neal did not look pleased. “New rule: No Phil Kramer in the bedroom. We don’t talk about him here, and we definitely don’t talk _to_ him here. Especially not during sex. Turn it off. You can call him back later.”

“Elizabeth would kill me if she knew.”

“I think Elizabeth would kill you if she knew you’d interrupted a Grade A blow job because Kramer called you. Though actually,” Neal said, looking suddenly thoughtful and a little evil, “if you’re seriously considering answering, then I’m obviously not doing my job right.”

“Neal,” Peter said, but that was as far as he got. Neal swallowed him down, hands firm on Peter’s hips. Peter dropped the phone. 

Sometime later, Peter woke again in rumpled sheets to the sound of the shower. He stretched carefully, feeling sore all over from the night before, but the good kind of sore that meant he’d played a hard game. His limbs felt heavy and relaxed; watery winter sunlight spilled through the window, and he could hear Neal singing to himself, surprisingly on-key, in the shower. 

He did not want to call Kramer back and ruin this moment. But it’d already been a couple hours, and he also didn’t want to deliberately piss Kramer off. Though it might’ve been too late for that. He sighed and fished his phone out from the sheets. 

There were about a hundred texts, and more than a few missed calls. Peter ignored most of them. Mindful of Neal’s new rule, Peter got out of bed and pulled a pair of pants on. He couldn’t leave the room, but he didn’t want to be smelling sheets that still smelled of him and Neal while he talked to Kramer. 

Kramer picked up before the first ring had ended. “Pete.”

“Good morning, sir. I saw that you’d called.”

“Yes, I did. Several hours ago. You know, the morning after one of my star players makes an announcement like you did last night, I expect him to take my calls.”

“Well, I’ve been a little busy this morning.”

“Yes, I’m sure you have been.” 

The words were innocent enough, but there was a sneer in Kramer’s voice that Peter didn’t like. Peter gritted his teeth. “Was there something specific you wanted to talk about, sir?”

“Well, strategy of course. I understand that you’ve already been meeting with Ms. Mitchell -”

“Elizabeth has me covered,” Peter said flatly. “You don’t need to worry about my PR strategy.”

It took Kramer a beat or two to answer. Probably he was taken aback by Peter’s tone, which was not quite as polite as it normally was. “I’m sorry, son, but yes, I do.”

 _Son._

That was it. Peter had been feeling angry for days - a low level, slow burning anger. Kramer had tried to ruin his career and his relationship with Neal, and he’d come damn close to succeeding with the latter. He’d been ever-so-polite the whole time, and Peter had played his games because he’d felt he had no choice. But he was suddenly _furious_. He knew he might make things much worse for himself, but he no longer cared. 

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your son, thank God. And while we’re at it, my name’s not Pete. I’ve never gone by Pete. I hate the name Pete, and I especially hate it when you call me Pete. My name’s _Peter_.”

Kramer’s voice, when he finally spoke after several seconds of silence, was low and dangerous. “You want to watch your tone.”

“No, I don’t think I do,” Peter shot back. “I’ve been watching my tone with you for years, but guess what, Phil? I’m done. Trade me or don’t trade me, I am _done._ I won’t pretend I don’t care where I play, though, so don’t expect to come out smelling like roses. It’s going to be damn clear to everyone who made the decision and why it was made.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Kramer said stiffly, “but your attitude this morning is extremely unappealing. All things considered, I think I’ve been far more understanding than most owners would have been about those photos.”

Peter snorted. “Stop it. We both know my coming out wasn’t a surprise, and we both know those photos weren’t a surprise either. So let’s cut the crap, shall we? I don’t want to be traded, and you don’t want open war with one of your most valuable players. And let me make myself clear: I _will_ do what I need to in order to protect myself and Neal.”

Silence stretched. Peter held his breath and waited. He was aware, dimly, that the shower had turned off, but he wasn’t sure when. 

“What do you want?” Kramer asked at last. 

“I want you to leave me alone. I want you to leave Neal alone. When you see me at the stadium or the front office, you don’t say hello. When someone asks you about me, you say that as management you don’t comment on your players’ personal lives. And when my contract is up for renewal next year, the negotiations will be done with the utmost professionalism through my agent. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” Kramer bit out. 

“Good. All further communications to me go through Elizabeth or my agent. Good-bye, Phil.” 

Peter disconnected. There was a rushing in his ears, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. 

Behind him, someone started clapping. Peter turned, startled, and saw Neal leaning in the bathroom doorway, towel wrapped around his waist, eyes shining.

“How much did you hear?” Peter asked. 

“Enough,” Neal said. “Peter, that was so hot.”

Peter blinked. “It was?”

“So hot,” Neal repeated, stalking towards him. “Hotter than watching you win last night.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Neal stopped in front of him and let his towel drop. He pushed Peter back onto the bed and climbed on top. 

“You can’t possibly be ready to go again,” Peter said, not that he was really going to argue with an armful of naked Neal. “ _I’m_ not.”

“Nope,” Neal said cheerfully. “But I thought we’d make out until we were. What do you think?”

“Solid plan,” Peter agreed. Neal kissed him.

If it had been up to Neal, he and Peter wouldn’t have left their hotel room for a good two or three days. They had earned some time off, dammit, and the time alone let them separate the stuff that was screwed up - Phil Kramer and Peter being outed on the internet - from the stuff that wasn’t - him and Peter and their relationship. They’d come close enough to losing everything that Neal wanted nothing more than to spend at least forty-eight hours alone in a bubble, just him and Peter, with no phones and no internet connection. But it wasn’t up to him, and more than that, he knew it wasn’t practical - or fair to Elizabeth, Jones, Diana, Sara, Moz, June, or Peter’s family, since they’d be harassed in his and Peter’s stead.

That evening was the closing ceremonies, and Elizabeth thought it was a good idea from a PR perspective for them to go. As much as Neal didn’t want to go _anywhere_ , he agreed. So twenty-four hours after Peter had won gold and come out within the same hour, the two of them left the hotel to catch a shuttle up to Olympic Stadium. 

The hotel had been great about not allowing reporters to harass them on their property, but they were definitely there, just beyond the driveway. Peter was clearly annoyed as they waited for their shuttle under the portico, but Neal waved cheerfully, then turned and tugged Peter down into a kiss. The people around them, other patrons from the hotel, eyed them sideways, but no one said a word.

“You’re not going to find this funny in a week or two,” Peter told him, when Neal let him go. 

Neal shrugged. “In a week or two, they won’t be nearly as interested.”

“We’ll see,” Peter said ominously. Their shuttle pulled up and they both climbed in. “In Buffalo, people are always interested. Even when I wasn’t interesting, people were interested. And you’re going to be much more of a local celebrity now. We’ll be lucky if we don’t have reporters going through our trash.”

Neal rolled his eyes. “So I’ll make sure to shred all the naked photos. Come on, Peter. Eventually someone else will do something more interesting, and they’ll move on.”

Peter sighed. “You’re right. I know you’re right. I’ve just never liked this part of it.”

Neal slid his fingers between Peter’s. “Well, maybe it’s a good thing then that I kind of do.” He’d already had a talk with Elizabeth about that earlier that afternoon, while Peter was in the shower. 

“He’s going to hate this,” Elizabeth had told him when he’d called her to find out what he could do to make Peter’s life easier. “Peter’s a great interview, but only when he’s being asked about hockey. He doesn’t like talking about his personal life. That worked just fine when he didn’t _have_ a personal life, but now he does, and it’s an interesting one, so he’s going to get asked about it. And that’s going to drive him crazy.”

“Okay,” Neal said, wondering where she was going with this.

“So here’s my question for you. How do _you_ feel about talking about your personal life?”

Neal shrugged. “Okay, I guess. I mean, I’d rather some stuff stayed private, but if you’re talking about fluff pieces about what we like to do on dates, I can do that.” Though come to think of it, Neal wasn’t entirely sure what they _did_ like to do on dates. They’d only gone out three times in Buffalo.

“There’ll be some of that,” Elizabeth said, “but I’m more talking about social media. Do you have a public Facebook page or a Twitter account? Or an Instagram?”

“I have a Facebook page,” Neal said. “A public one for fans and a private one that’s just for people I know. I don’t have a Twitter or an Instagram.”

“How would you feel about getting one? People are going to want little glimpses of your lives. 

Neal blinked. “You want us to take selfies?”

“Yes, Neal, I want you to take selfies. Can you do that? Because I can tell you right now that Peter’s going to be hopeless at it.”

“I can do it,” Neal said, “I’m just - that’s not what I thought you were going to say. Is that really it?”

Elizabeth laughed. “Oh Neal, we’re just getting started. But yes, for now that’s it.” He’d heard her typing on the other end of the line. “I’m setting you up Twitter and Instagram accounts right now and sending you the log-in info. Post something nice from the closing ceremonies, all right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Neal had promised, smiling. 

The closing ceremonies didn’t have quite as much pomp and circumstances as the opening ceremonies, but it was close. This time, all the athletes marched in together, which meant Neal got to walk with Peter on one side and Michael on the other, while Jones and Diana both stuck close to Peter. All of them were wearing their medals, and though Neal didn’t think of himself as particularly patriotic, he had to admit that it was a nice moment. Especially with Peter by his side. 

It was hard to believe it was over, Neal thought as they took their seats on the stadium floor. It was hard to believe that so much had changed in the last two weeks. His life would literally never be the same again. 

“You okay?” Peter asked, sliding his arm across the back of Neal’s chair. 

“Yeah, I’m just - I can’t believe it’s over, you know?”

“I know,” Peter said. “What a rollercoaster. Lots of ups and downs.”

Neal reached over and put his hand on Peter’s knee. “I’m sorry for the part I played in the downs.”

Peter shook his head. He captured Neal’s hand in his and held it against heart. “Don’t be. I think - I think everything that happened had to happen. We had to work all that out. Maybe not all of it in two weeks,” he added with a wry grin, “but at least it’s behind us now.”

Neal nodded. That seemed like as good a time as any. “Smile for the camera,” he said, leaning in close and holding his phone out in front of them. 

“What are we doing?” Peter asked blankly. 

Neal gave him a look. “We’re taking a selfie, Peter.”

“Why?”

“Because Elizabeth asked me to make sure we did. She wants me to post a picture of us at the closing ceremonies to Twitter and Instagram.”

Peter still looked deeply dubious. Neal hoped this would be a battle he only had to fight once. “You have a Twitter account?”

“I do now, yeah. And an Instagram. El set them up for me this afternoon.”

“But - why?”

Neal lowered his phone with a sigh. “Because people are going to want to see into our lives, Peter. This way, we can control what we give them. And maybe if we give them something, we _won’t_ have people going through our trash.”

“Hmm,” Peter said. “El said that?”

She hadn’t, but Neal was sure that if she’d been talking to Peter, she would have. “Sure.”

“Well. Okay, then.”

Neal smiled. “Come here, you have to lean in.” Peter did so, and Neal held the phone up. He took three photos, just to make sure there’d be one where both their eyes were open, and then started messing around with filters. Peter watched him, a slight frown line between his eyebrows. 

Neal nudged him. “Watch the ceremony, Peter. I got this.”

Peter didn’t look any less dubious, but he turned to look back at the floor of the stadium, where the final medals of the games were being awarded. Neal didn’t want to miss more than he had to - they were his first closing ceremonies, though he hoped they wouldn’t be his last - so he quickly found a filter that seemed to work. It was a cute picture of them - cute _and_ coupley. 

“What should I say?” Neal asked, leaning over into Peter’s ear. 

Peter threw him a look. “Captions on Twitter photos aren’t really my area.”

Jesus, El had been right to call Peter ‘hopeless.’ It was a good thing Peter had _him_. “‘Good-bye, Olympics!’” Neal said, reading aloud as he typed. “‘See you in South Korea in four years!’ Good?”

Peter nodded. “Sounds good. And I like the sentiment, too.” 

Neal put his phone away and leaned into Peter as they watched the last few moments of the Olympics. Four years from now, he wasn’t sure where he and Peter would be. Maybe they’d still be in Buffalo; maybe they’d be somewhere else. But Neal was certain, in the moment he watched the Olympic flame extinguished, that wherever they were, wherever life took them, he and Peter would be there together. 

_Fin._


End file.
